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STORIES FROM 


FAMOUS BALLADS 


BY 


GRACE GREENWOOD 





: > 



V 



The princess was dre>sed in robes of crims : 




velvet 




STORIES FROM 


FAMOUS BALLADS 

BY 

GRACE GREENWOOD ^ 

'> I 

Edited by 

CAROLINE BURNITE 

Director of Children’s Work, Cleveland Public Library 



With Illustrations by 

EDMUND H. GARRETT 



GINN & COMPANY 

BOSTON • NEW YORK • CHICAGO • LONDON 


library tf CONGRESS 
Tw« C«PiAS fitceived 


S[^ 26 1906 


e«tyricftt Entry . 

lass cl XXc.i n«. 


COPY ». 


Copyright, 1906 
By GINN & COMPANY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERV^ED 


66.8 


tCbe SltfjenKum 


GINN & COMPANY • PRO- 
PRIETORS . BOSTON • U.S.A. 


INTRODUCTION 


It was in the later days of the spinning wheel 
when Grace Greenwood wrote these stories of 
famous ballads. She was the only American 
author of her time to appreciate the value of 
classic romance to young girls, and in these stories 
she reflects much of the lofty sentiment and purity 
of spirit of early English ballad poetry. 

To-day girls read too little pure romance and 
too freely the modern love story. They find 
romance in fairy tales ; they find but little of it 
in the complex life of to-day. How much better 
is it for them to be glad that pretty Bessee won 
the love of a noble, and that her beggar father 
proved his ancient lineage at her wedding feast ; 
or to feel sorry for poor Jenny, who, for the sake 
of her parents, married Auld Robin Gray when 
her heart was with her “lost Jamie”; or to be 
thrilled by the king of France’s daughter as she 


VI 


INTRODUCTION 


steals from her father’s palace to meet her English 
lover — how much better than the modern story 
in which the girl sees herself as the heroine I 
One takes a girl out of herself, the other leads 
her into herself, which is to be regretted. 

These stories are reprinted in the hope that 
girls may appreciate the simplicity and beauty of 
them, and thereby may be led to read the romantic 
ballads in their original poetic form. 

CAROLINE BURNITE 

Director of Children's Work 
Cleveland Pttblic Library 


CONTENTS 


Page 

The King of France’s Daughter i 

The Beggar’s Daughter, of Bednall-Green . ii 

The English Merchant and the Saracen Lady 30 

Patient Griselda 40 

The Heir of Linne 55 

Auld Robin Gray 66 

Chevy Chace 72 

The King and the Miller of Mansfield . . 80 

Sir Patrick Spens 94 



STORIES FROM FAMOUS 
BALLADS 

THE KING OF FRANCE’S DAUGHTER 

A LONG time ago, there ruled in France a famous 
monarch, called “Charles the Bald,” who had a 
fair daughter named Judith, the only child of his 
dead queen. She was a very sweet young princess; 
graceful and beautiful, as only a princess in a 
ballad or a fairy story can be. The king doted on 
her with all his' heart, was proud of her beauty and 
accomplishments, and resolved to wed her to some 
rich and powerful prince. But unfortunately for 
his ambitious plans, there came to his court a young 
prince of England, named Ethelwulph, brave and 
renowned, but, because of a revolution in his native 
land, an exile, poor and powerless. He was hand- 
some and amiable, and, falling in love with the 
princess of France, had little difficulty in winning 
her love in return. This was not at all pleasing to 


2 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


the king, her father; indeed was so displeasing that 
he frowned on his young guest in awful indignation 
and reproach. This made Ethelwulph’s residence 
at court very imcomfortable, as all the courtiers — 
who copied after their liege lord so servilely that to 
the youngest they shaved their crowns, in imitation 
of the royal baldness — frowned with double black- 
ness on the unlucky stranger; and all the fair ladies 
of the court, except the princess, looked most ungra- 
cious, or coolly turned their backs upon him. 

The king reproved his daughter sternly, and 
commanded her to think no more of that penniless 
and proscribed young Englishman. A great king 
was Charles, but his power did not reach quite so 
far as that; Judith thought of her lover more than 
ever, pitied him, and resolved to cling to him all the 
more for his misfortunes. 

At length her father began to treat her severely, 
and wished to marry her to a gray- headed old royal 
suitor, whom she detested; and, getting very desper- 
ate, she agreed to escape from court with her lover, 
to some safe refuge, where they could wed and live in 
peace. So she disguised herself in humble attire, 
and, taking only, of all her royal goods, a casket of 
jewels and gold, stole forth, one summer night, 


THE KING OF FRANCE’S DAUGHTER 3 


from her father’s stately palace, away to the great 
hunting forest, on the borders of which her English 
lover had promised to meet her. 

The young prince reached the spot agreed upon 
for the meeting before his fair lady, and sat down 
imder an oak-tree, to wait her coming. But most 
unluckily, as he waited there, all fond impatience, 
he was attacked by outlaws, robbed, and mortally 
woimded by dagger-strokes. 

The princess came to the wood, yet could not for a 
long time find the spot where he lay, but wandered 
about, listening for his voice, and calling him softly, 
for fear of being overheard by robbers, or some of 
the king’s foresters. At length she was startled by 
hearing piteous sobs and groans, and then a mourn- 
ful voice, saying, “Farewell, my beloved, whom I 
must never more see! My days are at an end, and 
for thy love I die. While I lie here, bleeding all 
my brave young life away, I think only of my beauti- 
ful lady, and I am not sorry that I loved her. Ah, 
little knows she that my heart’s blood is flowing on 
the ground! ” 

At these words, the princess, struck with a sad 
foreboding, rushed forward to the side of the dying 
man. The robbers had dragged him out from 


4 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


under the oak-tree’s shadow into an open glade, 
where the full moon shone down on his ghastly face. 
It was, indeed, her beloved prince. She flung her- 
self down by him, raised his head on her knee, and 
called him by his name very tenderly and sorrow- 
fully. Alas! he could not answer her. Once he 
looked at her; then with a low, sad sigh, his Ufe 
fled away forever. 

For a long time the princess would not believe 
Prince Ethelwulph dead, but continued to call on his 
name more and more wildly, striving to rouse him 
from his deep swoon, and to stanch his bleeding 
wounds. At last she resigned all hope, and, lying 
down by his side, with his cold hand pressed close 
to her heart, she wept bitterly till morning. Then 
she rose up and looked about her, wearily and 
desolately. “Alas!” she murmured, “what will 
become of me? I cannot bear to return to the 
court of my father; — my father, who scorned him^ 
— my gracious and right royal love, the princeliest 
man under the sun, — and drove him forth to die 
in this savage wood! Rather will I seek a servant’s 
lowly place, in some stranger’s family, and, all 
unknown, live out my few sad days, — my woeful 
widowed days.” Then she fell to weeping again 


THE KING OF FRANCE’S DAUGHTER 5 


very drearily, and calling on the name of her dead 
love. 

It happened that a forester — a very brave and 
comely youth — was that morning ranging the 
wood, and came suddenly upon the maiden. See- 
ing that he looked gentle and full of pity, she told 
him a part of her sorrowful story, and shewed him 
her dead lover, but did not reveal his rank or her 
own. Her distress moved him to tears. He com- 
forted her all he could; he took up the body of the 
prince, and bore it tenderly to his cottage, where he 
washed its wounds, composed its limbs, and laid it 
to rest in the flowery earth, under an old forest-tree. 

Then, as the princess had spoken to him of wish- 
ing to go to service, he placed her with his mother, 
who was very kind to her, and soon grew to love her 
very dearly. And not alone did that good old dame 
love the fair and sorrowful stranger, but all her 
household; and most of all, the handsome young 
forester. He had never beheld a maiden of such 
refined beauty, such grace, and such gentle manners ; 
and he thought it would be the happiest thing in the 
world if he could win her for his wife. 

It was a long time before the princess would 
consent to marry him. Her love and her joy 


6 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


seemed all buried with her murdered prince. But 
the forester was so kind and generous, and she was 
so grateful to him, and honored him so sincerely, 
that she finally granted him her hand; and he 
proved so good a husband that at last she grew 
very happy and contented, and almost forgot the 
lofty rank to which she was born, and the bitter 
sorrow of her girlhood. 

It was not till after years had gone by, and she 
was the mother of seven children, that the Princess 
Judith revealed the secret of her royal birth to her 
husband. He was greatly astonished; and, though 
he did not love his beautiful wife any better than 
before, he wondered that she could have ever loved 
him and married him, — a man of low degree. He 
besought her to allow him to proclaim her rank to 
the world; and from that time he clothed his children 
in a very curious manner. He had made for them 
parti-colored garments, — the right side of cloth of 
gold, the left of gray frieze, as emblematical of the 
rank of the mother and of the father. When he 
next heard that the king was coming to chase 
the deer in the forest, he persuaded Judith to place 
herself and her children near a path along which his 
majesty must ride. 


THE KING OF FRANCE’S DAUGHTER 


7 


The princess was dressed in robes of crimson 
velvet, and wore the royal jewels she had secretly 
treasured through all these years. Her husband 
stood beside her, dressed all in sober gray, but a 
right gallant figure to behold; and the seven beauti- 
ful children, in their parti-colored dress, — half 
cloth of gold, half gray frieze, like sunshine and 
shadow, — were grouped around their parents. 

Judith started and turned pale when she heard 
the horn of the hunters, and the dull sound of 
their horses’ hoofs on the grassy forest paths. Her 
heart yearned lovingly toward her father, as it had 
often done since she had been a mother; but she 
feared to meet him face to face, — feared that he 
would reproach and disown her; or, what would be 
far worse, treat with lofty scorn her good and noble 
husband. 

At length the monarch came in sight, followed by 
a long cavalcade of knights and gentlemen. Judith 
looked at him eagerly. He did not seem greatly 
changed; he had grown a little stouter and ruddier, 
a little more bald, and his face seemed somewhat 
softened, as by sorrow and regret. 

Charles was a keen-eyed monarch, who saw every- 
thing in his way; so that singular group by the road- 


8 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


side did not escape his notice. He checked his 
horse, and looked at them curiously for a few 
moments; then, calling the forester to him, asked 
how he dared to dress his wife in such a royal way, 
and to put cloth of gold on his children. 

“Because, sire,’’ replied the forester, “she hath, 
by birth, as well as by sovereign beauty, the right 
to be so arrayed ; and the children, through her, are 
entitled to cloth of gold and pearls; she being a 
princess — the highest in the land.” 

On hearing this reply, the king looked more 
earnestly at Judith, and his stern face lighted up 
with a great joy, as he said to the forester, “The 
more I look at thy wife, the more it seems to me that 
she is my long lost daughter, whom I have mourned 
as dead.” 

At these words the princess sprang forward, and, 
kneeling before him, cried, “I am thy daughter, — 
once thy little Judith. Pardon me, my dear father 
and sovereign liege!” 

The king at once dismounted and raised her in 
his arms, kissed her, and wept over her. Then he 
embraced her husband, and kissed and blessed her 
children — all seven of them — right tenderly and 
joyfully. 


THE KING OF FRANCE’S DAUGHTER 


9 


After this glad meeting, the king gave up hunt- 
ing for the day; and, turning about with all his 
train, went home with the forester and his family. 
There, in that rustic cottage, which, though not very 
small, quite overflowed with all that gay retinue, 
Charles the Bald — no longer the proud and ambi- 
tious monarch who frowned on poor Ethelwulph, 
and so cruelly treated his only daughter — dubbed 
the lowly-bom forester knight, and made him Earl 
of Flanders, and chief of all the royal forces. 

Soon after this time, the earl and the princess went 
to live in a royal castle, and had hosts of servitors; 
and, though they saw less of each other than formerly, 
they saw a great deal of good company, to make up 
for it. Their seven children no longer wore parti- 
colored clothes, but dressed in velvet and cloth of 
gold every day, and had tutors and governesses, and 
were taught to behave like fine ladies and gentlemen. 

But I doubt if they were, any of them, happier 
than in the old days, before the princess revealed 
that she was a princess, and when the children ran 
free about the forester’s cottage, and grew strong and 
beautiful in the breezy old wood; when they gathered 
wild flowers, waded in the brook, and tumbled in 
the grass, without fear of soiling their clothes, — 


lO 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


their gray peasant gowns, jerkins, and hose, — and 
without fear of tiresome reproofs for their merry 
frolics and joyous laughter. But people can’t be 
great princes and princesses without paying for their 
grandeur, in quiet ease, healthy sport, and careless 
happiness. 


THE BEGGAR’S DAUGHTER, OF 
BEDN ALL-GREEN 


In the old feudal times, some six hundred years 
ago, when England was in a troubled, unsettled 
state, often convulsed and desolated by civil wars, 
there might have been seen, through many summers, 
sitting in the shade of an oak-tree, on Bednall- 
Green, — a part of London town, — a certain 
beggar-man, bUnd, but of a very noble and venerable 
appearance. He was led by a dog, and sometimes 
he was accompanied by his wife, — a handsome and 
stately person, though clad in gray russet, like any 
poor peasant woman, — and sometimes by his 
daughter, a beautiful little girl, whom he called 
Bessee. 

When this child grew into womanhood her beauty 
was so remarkable that in spite of her humble par- 
entage she had many admirers and suitors. But 
the fathers of her lovers would never consent to a 
marriage with a beggar’s daughter, and their mothers 
despised her, and would sometimes come to reproach 


II 


12 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


and scold her to her face, as though the poor girl 
could help her beauty or her birth. 

At length she grew very discontented and sorrow- 
ful, and told her father and mother that she wished 
to leave Bednall- Green, where she was creating so 
much disquiet in. respectable families, and that she 
had resolved to go forth to seek her fortune else- 
where. 

It was long ere the beggar and his wife would 
consent to part with their darling Bessee. But at 
last, as they saw that she was no longer cheerful or 
comfortable at home, they gave her their blessing, 
with kisses and many tears, and bade her go. She 
set forth at night, to avoid being followed by her 
troublesome lovers. She kept up heart until after 
she was out of sight or hearing of her parents; then 
she burst into tears, and sobbed bitterly for many a 
weary mile. She walked all night long; and just at 
daybreak entered the town of Rumford, where she 
found entertainment at the Queen’s Arms. 

The mistress of the inn was so pleased with the 
stranger that she wished to keep her for a house- 
maid. Yet she was so puzzled by Bessee’s appear- 
ance — for though clad in gray russet, the maiden 
had the air and delicate beauty of a born lady — 


THE BEGGAR’S DAUGHTER 


13 


that she did not venture to offer her the situation. 
But after a little while Bessee very humbly asked to 
be employed at the inn as a servant; and both 
master and mistress were glad to engage her. So 
amiable and prudent was she that all in the house- 
hold grew to loving her very dearly. And that was 
not all; — greatly to the pretty maid’s annoyance, 
she was soon surrounded by as many admirers as at 
Bednall- Green. All the gay young men of the 
town seemed suddenly to have discovered that the 
finest ale and the best cakes in Rumford were to be 
found at the little roadside inn, where served the 
fair blue-eyed girl, to whom everybody gave the name 
of ‘‘Pretty Bessee.” Thither they flocked, in 
crowds, greatly to the delight of the innkeeper and 
his wife, whose business thrived the more, the more 
the maid’s beauty and grace were noised about. But 
Bessee, though kind and courteous to all, was modest 
and prudent; and though her lovers sang her praises 
in sweet songs, very tender and mournful, and though 
they sent her beautiful gifts of silver and gold, when 
they sued for her hand, she always shook her 
head firmly, and said with a sigh, “Nay, nay, none 
of gentle blood or high estate should wed with me.” 

Four suitors, at one time, fair Bessee had, who 


14 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


loved her so fondly that they would not be put off 
by a shake of her pretty head, nor by her “Nay, 
gentles!” though many times repeated. The first 
was a noble young knight, who came to her dis- 
guised, so that she did not know his rank; yet she 
liked him best of all. The second was a country 
gentleman, of a proud and ancient family. The 
third was a rich merchant of London ; and the fourth 
was her master’s own son, a bold young gallant, 
who swore big oaths of love, and declared himself 
ready to die for “Pretty Bessee, ” at the shortest 
notice. 

“If thou vdlt marry me,” said the knight, “I will 
make thee a lady, with the greatest joy and pride; 
for I am not what I seem, but a nobleman of high 
degree.” 

At these words, Bessee started and turned very 
pale, feeling grieved, not glad, to know that the man 
she liked best of all the world was so far above her. 

Then spoke the country gentleman. “If thou 
wilt wed me, thou shalt be a lady as fine as any in 
the land, and never toil more with those dainty 
hands. My life is drear without thee, ‘Pretty 
Bessee ’ ; a wretched man am I, for want of thy dear 
love.” 


THE BEGGAR’S DAUGHTER 


15 


Then spoke the rich merchant, saying, with a 
proud smile, “Choose me for thy husband, gentle 
maid, and thou shalt live in London, after a gay and 
gallant fashion. My ships shall bring home silks 
and jewels for thee, and I will love thee better than 
all the world.” 

When the merchant said this, Bessee looked at 
him very demurely, but with a quiet little smile 
hovering round her sweet, rosy moiith, — a smile 
that seemed to say, “I know thee well, good sir, 
and just how far this great love will go — just how 
much thy brave vows are worth.” She gave the 
same look to the gentleman, and to the innkeeper’s 
son; but when she glanced at the noble face of the 
knight she sighed. Yet to each one she returned 
the same answer: “I mean always to obey my dear 
father and mother. Thou must first gain their 
consent before I can promise thee my love.” 

Each suitor willingly assented to this, and eagerly 
asked, “Where does thy good father dwell, ‘Pretty 
Bessee’ ?” 

Truly and bravely then answered Bessee. “My 
father, alas ! is well known as the old blind beggar of 
Bednall- Green. Daily sits he there, asking charity 
of all good Christians. You cannot miss him. 


i6 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


When he walks he is led by a dog with a bell. A 
poor, blind old man, God knoweth! Yet he is the 
father of Bessee, to whom she oweth and giveth all 
love and duty. ” 

The rich merchant drew himself up, grew very 
red in the face, and said, bluntly, “Then, fair 
damsel, thou art not for me;” and went his ways in 
stately haste, like one of his ships under full sail. 
The innkeeper’s gallant son tossed his nose high in 
the air, and said, insolently, “If it be so, look not 
to be my wife. I cannot stoop so low from my 
degree, even for thy pretty face, my winsome lass.” 
As for the gentleman, he took off his plumed hat, 
and, bowing low, said, with a mocking smile, “I 
pray thy pardon, my fair mistress, but thy father’s 
calhng pleases me little. In truth, I loathe a 
beggar’s degree; and so am forced to say adieu to 
‘Pretty Bessee.’” 

The beggar’s noble daughter heard each lover’s 
reply without grief and without shame, and looked 
him out of her presence with a smile of quiet scorn. 
But when it came the young knight’s turn to speak 
her breath came fast, and she could not lift her 
eyes to his face, for fear that he, too, might disdain 
her. But there was little cause for fear. With a 


THE BEGGAR’S DAUGHTER 


17 


frank laugh, and in a manly, cheery voice, he said, 
“As for me, come better or worse, I weigh not gold 
or rank against true love; and beauty and goodness 
are the same in every degree. To me thou wilt be 
welcome for thyself alone, my ‘Pretty Bessee.’” 

You may be sure that the beggar’s daughter did 
not look cold or scornful at this brave reply. She 
blushed with sudden joyfulness, while tears of 
gratitude and affection shone in her sweet blue eyes. 

She soon consented to accompany her lover to 
Bednall- Green, to ask the consent of her parents 
to her marriage. 

But meanwhile the knight’s kinsmen had heard 
of his strange choice of a wife, and were greatly 
incensed against him; declaring that their ancient 
and honorable family should not be disgraced by 
such an alliance. To prevent their interference 
with his plans, the knight stole away from Rumford 
at daybreak, carrying Bessee before him on a swift 
steed. Away sped they, like the wind, toward 
Bednall- Green; but like the wind came on behind 
them certain gallant young men of Rumford, who 
had heard of “Pretty Bessee’s” elopement, and, 
like so many dogs of the manger, were determined 
that if they could not marry her, no one should. 


i8 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


‘‘Death,” they cried, “to the bold knave who would 
rob us of the fair maid who pours our ale and serves 
our cakes with such a dainty grace!” 

Just as the lovers had reached the blind beggar’s 
door, the young men overtook them, set upon the 
knight most furiously, and would have slain him 
had not his kinsmen, also out in pursuit of him, 
come to the rescue. When the noble gentlemen 
had sent the Rumford gallants about their business 
they began to reproach the knight for his folly, and 
to rail at Bessee for a low-bom, designing beggar- 
girl. Then up spoke the maid’s father, standing 
erect, a tall, venerable figure, — the great white 
cloud of his silvery hair flung back from his brow, 
and his pale cheek flushing with anger, — “Though 
I be a beggar-man, ” he said, “rail not in this unman- 
nerly way at my child, before mine own door! 
Though she be decked not in velvet and jewels, she 
is not so poor as she seems. I will drop angels * 
with you, for my dear little girl; and if the gold that 
I shall bring forth shall seem to you to make up for 
her lowly birth, and equal what you can lay down, 
you must no longer rail at her, or forbid your kins- 
man to make a lady of the blind beggar’s daughter. 

* An “ angel ” was an ancient English coin. 



Till all their purses were exhausted 



THE BEGGAR’S DAUGHTER 


19 


But first you must promise me that all the gold you 
lay down shall be your own.’’ 

“So be it; we promise,” cried the chief nobleman 
of the knight’s proud family, with a merry, derisive 
laugh. 

“Well, then,” says the blind beggar, “here’s for 
my Bessee!” throwing down an angel. The nobles 
then threw down one, the beggar another, and so on 
till all their purses were exhausted, and the blind 
man had dropped full three thousand poimds, — 
often flinging down two or three for the gentlemen’s 
one. Then, when the ground where they stood was 
completely covered with gold, they cried out, “Hold, 
thou wonderful beggar-man! We have no more. 
Thou hast fulfilled thy promise aright.” 

“Then,” said the old man, authoritatively, like 
one used to command, “marry my daughter to your 
kinsman; and here are a hundred pounds more, to 
buy her a wedding gown.” 

“Agreed, venerable sir!” was the response. 
“And now we look at thy daughter more closely, 
we see that she is of marvelous beauty and fairness.” 
This said, they each and all took Bessee by the hand, 
and adopted her into their great family, with a 
brotherly kiss, vowing that her lips were as sweet 


20 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


and soft as those of any grand lady in the realm; 
whereat the modest maid blushed scarlet, and the 
knight at her side frowned with sudden anger. 

After this, Bessee’s father and mother embraced 
her, blessed her, and placed her hand in that of her 
lover. And so was the beggar’s daughter betrothed 
to a great noble, comely and passing rich, and, what 
was better, a true and honorable man. 

When the innkeeper’s son heard of Bessee’s good 
fortune he roared with grief and spite. “Three 
thousand angels! Woe is me!” he cried. And the 
innkeeper’s wife said, “Now thou hast gone and 
done for thyself, thou simpleton!” When the rich 
merchant heard of it, rich as he was, he cursed his ill 
luck, as though his best ship had foimdered at sea. 
But when the proud country gentleman heard of it 
little cared he; — “Natheless, she is a beggar’s 
daughter,” he said. 


It was soon announced that the wedding of 
“Pretty Bessee” was to take place in the great 
cathedral of Westminster, and was to be followed 
by a banquet in the palace of her noble lover. All 
was to be conducted with the greatest possible 


THE BEGGAR’S DAUGHTER 


21 


pomp and splendor. All sorts of rare dainties, rich 
meats, and costly wines were provided for the 
banquet. Beautiful dresses and magnificent jewels 
were purchased for the bride, with palfreys, hawks, 
and hounds, and all kinds of elegant pets and play- 
things. Ladies and pages were appointed to wait 
on her, and her boudoir, or bower, was hung anew 
with lovely blue silk, that seemed to drip with pearls, 
and decorated with paintings and gilding, till it was 
fit for a fairy princess. 

This strange and romantic marriage made such 
a noise among the high circles of England that all 
the nobles and great folk were eager to attend the 
wedding — the gentlemen curious to see what 
manner of damsel it was who had caused a great 
nobleman to forget his pride of birth, and all he 
owed to his high and mighty ancestors, the 
ladies longing yet dreading to behold the face whose 
beauty had made him indifferent to all their high- 
born pretensions to good looks. 

Before the high altar of the great cathedral, 
Bessee, followed by her ladies and pages, and look- 
ing resplendently lovely, met her noble lord, in 
magnificent attire, accompanied by a gay troop of 
gentlemen, all jeweled and plumed most gallantly. 


22 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


No less a dignitary than a bishop joined the hands 
of the loving pair, and gave them his august blessing. 
Then from the vast cathedral organ broke forth a 
mighty melody, so grand, so solemn, that it was like 
the great thunder of heaven softened and Christian- 
ized into music. This was followed by a burst of 
singing, so sweet, so triumphant, that it filled every 
heart, and made every soul feel as though it was 
putting on its angel-wings, to soar upward, with 
those glad, delicious strains, to a purer and brighter 
world than ours. 

At the banquet, the guests gazed often and long 
at the bride, who sat by her lord, at the head of the 
table, looking so modest and gracious that even the 
proud court ladies forgot their envy, in admiration, 
and the best eaters and drinkers slighted the dainty 
dishes and rich wines before them, to watch her, 
and talk of her beauty and good fortune. 

At length, one of the nobles exclaimed, “I marvel 
that we do not see here the jolly blind beggar. 
Methinks he should have been bid to his daughter’s 
wedding. ” 

The bride overheard this, and answered, very 
gently, “My lord, my father was too humble, or too 
proud, to thrust himself upon so stately a company. 


THE BEGGAR’S DAUGHTER 


23 


He thinks his condition too lowly for such consort- 
ing.’’ 

“If it were not too flattering a thing to utter to 
a fair lady’s face, we should say we think thy father’s 
lowliness would be more than made up for by 
thine exceeding beauty, ” replied the nobleman, with 
a pleasant smile. 

Just at this moment, there entered the great hall 
the blind beggar himself, but richly clad in a silk 
robe, with a plumed velvet cap; so that no one, 
save the bride and bridegroom, recognized him. 
He carried a lute under his arm, and, asking per- 
mission of the company, began to play upon it with 
great skill and sweetness, to the delight of all pres- 
ent, who declared him to be “a marvelous cunning 
minstrel.” After a delicate prelude, he sung this 
song : 

“A poor beggar’s daughter did dwell on a green, 

Who, for her fairness, might well be a queen; 

A blithe, bonny lass, and a dainty was she; 

And many one called her Pretty Bessee. 

“Her father he had no goods, nor no land, 

But begged for a penny, all day, with his hand; 

And yet to her marriage he gave thousands three. 
And still he hath somewhat for Pretty Bessee. 


24 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


“And if any one here her birth do disdain, 

Her father is ready, with might and with main. 

To prove she is come of noble degree; 

Therefore never flout at Pretty Bessee. ” 

On hearing the boast with which this song con- 
cluded, the gay company began to laugh heartily; 
and one merrily cried out, “ I’ faith, sir minstrel, the 
bride and the beggar are beholden to thee! Thou 
dost make quick work at ennobling them, in thy 
song.” 

Then up rose the bride, all blushing and tearful, 
and said, ‘‘Oh, pardon my father, I pray you, my 
lords and gentlemen! He dotes upon me with such 
blind affection that he doth dream these things.” 

“If this be thy father, sweet lady,” said one of 
the nobles, with grave courtesy, “he may well be 
proud of this day, — may well boast of thee ; and it 
is plain to be seen, by his countenance and air, that 
his birth and his fortunes do not agree. And 
therefore,” he continued, turning to the beggar, 
“we pray thee to reveal the truth, and, for the love 
thou bearest thy fair daughter, declare thy rank and 
thy parentage.” 

At these words, a smile, half proud, half mournful, 
lit the melancholy face of the blind man; and, run- 


THE BEGGAR’S DAUGHTER 


25 


ning his slender white fingers over the chords of 
his lute, he sung to the listening company another 
song, which contained the true story of his rank and 
fortune. This story I will tell you, in prose. 

The minstrel began by celebrating the heroic 
fame of Sir Simon de Montfort, the great Earl of 
Leicester, who was the chosen chief of the proud 
English barons, in a rebellion against their king. 
He was victorious in several contests; but finally, 
in the bloody battle of Evesham, the barons were 
routed, and their brave leader slain. 

Fighting side by side with Sir Simon de Montfort, 
on that fatal day, was his eldest son, Henry, who 
was often wounded, and finally struck down by a 
blow across the eyes, which deprived him forever 
of his sight. All the night which followed the great 
battle, the poor young nobleman lay among the 
dead and dying, bleeding and helpless, and only 
knew when it was day by the warmth of the sun- 
light falling upon his face, — the beautiful sunlight 
he was never more to behold! All day he lay there, 
in darkness and pain, thirsting, fainting, praying 
for death to give him release, and lead him to the 
light. He lay there till he knew, by the dews 
falling upon his parched lips, that another night had 


26 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


come. Then God sent to his help an angel, not of 
death, but of life. A baron’s fair daughter came 
forth, to seek among the slain for her father’s body, 
and seeing young De Montfort, and hearing his 
piteous moans, she was so moved by compassion 
that she had her servitors bear him to her castle. 
There she nursed him, secretly, for many weeks, 
until he was cured of all his wounds. He thought 
himself well enough to leave his hiding-place before 
his kind friend would hear of such a thing; but one 
day, when he spoke of going, and the lady still 
urged him to stay longer, he broke out passionately, 
saying he musl go ; — that already he had grown to 
love his benefactress, whose face he had never seen 
more than all the beauty his lost eyes had ever 
beheld, — more than the glorious green of his native 
fields, the bloom of flowers, or the dear light of 
heaven ; and that if he lingered any longer he should 
lose all power to part from her. 

“My poor friend, where will you go, and what 
will you do, without me, who am your eyes, now, 
you know?” said the lady, very gently, taking the 
hand which was groping about for hers to clasp in 
farewell. “Listen to me, De Montfort. — My 
father is dead; my kinsmen are slain or banished; 


THE BEGGAR’S DAUGHTER 


27 


the king will seize upon niy lands, as he has seized 
upon thine, and I shall soon be as poor and friend- 
less as thou art. Take me with thee, to serve and 
comfort thee. I have no refuge but thee; besides,’’ 
she added, softly, almost in a whisper, “I, too, love 
thee, — love thee all the better for thy misfortunes, 
and cannot let thee go forth into the dark, cruel 
world, alone.” 

Oh, very gladly the young soldier consented! and 
soon the noble lovers were married, by a good 
priest, who faithfully kept their secret. The lady 
sold her jewels for a large sum of money, which 
she treasured up for future need. For the present, 
the only safety of her husband was in humbleness 
and apparent poverty. He was beheved to have 
been slain at the battle of Evesham, but should his 
enemies now discover him he would speedily suffer 
death. 

So it was that the rightful Earl of Leicester and 
his fair wife clothed themselves in russet, and Hved 
like the poorest peasants; — that he who had once 
taken his place with the proudest nobles of the land 
became the ‘‘Blind Beggar of Bednall- Green.” 

It was not till after they had been married many 
years that Heaven sent “Pretty Bessee” to bring 


28 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


brightness and sweet comfort to the lowly cottage of 
the Montforts. She grew up a good and prudent 
girl; but never, till the day when he saw her the wife 
of a powerful noble, in high favor with the king, 
had her father dared to reveal, even to her, her 
honorable birth, and his own true name. 

‘‘This, my lords,” said the minstrel, “is the end 
of the story of one who once belonged to your own 
rank. I should never have revealed the secret but 
for my Bessee’s sake. For myself, I should be con- 
tent to die as unnoted and despised as I have lived 
these forty years; yet shall I be well content to see 
my Bessee’s mother honored according to her great 
deserts, — as a lady born, as well as the truest 
wife that lives in all our England.” 

When he ceased, there softly stepped forth, from 
the crowd around him, a tall, fair woman, richly 
but simply clad, — not young, but still beautiful and 
stately, — who walked majestically to the minstrel’s 
side, and laid her hand on his shoulder. And the 
old man, standing up very proudly, said to all the 
company, in the grand, unforgotten way of a great 
noble, “My wife! ” 

At this, all the lords and ladies came forward, and 
reverently greeted her, and gave their ha,nds to her 


THE BEGGAR’S DAUGHTER 


29 


husband, addressing him by his ancient title. Then 
they kissed and embraced the fair bride, who 
was smiling and weeping, with surprise and joy, 
and congratulated her that she was one of them, of 
as good blood as any in the realm. 

So “Pretty Bessee” was proved to be a lady 
born; but to the generous young lord who stood so 
proud and happy by her side, she was no better, 
fairer, or dearer, for all that; though that it was a 
good thing he did not deny. 

The old ballad says that the banquet ended most 
joyfully, and that the noble knight spent a long and 
happy life with his gentle lady, the “Pretty Bessee.’’ 


THE ENGLISH MERCHANT AND THE 
SARACEN LADY 


In the reign of Henry the First, of England, 
Beauclerc^ or Fine Scholar (for he was actually 
so learned that he could write his own name, — a 
great attainment for a king, in those days), there 
lived in London a rich young merchant, named 
Gilbert a Becket. 

In that simple old time, the wonders of science 
and art, among which we walk and live just as if 
they had always been, — like the trees, the flowers, 
the sky, and the stars, — were never thought of, or 
dreamed of, except by the great poets, who, maybe, 
with their prophet-eyes, looked away into the far 
future, and saw them looming up above the coming 
ages, like mountain-peaks in the distance of a 
landscape. Then the great oceans could heave, and 
swell, and roar, and rage, and toss their mad frothing 
waves up at the sky, as if to defy the great God; 
and then, obedient to his will, grow quiet and 
smooth again — year after year, without one single 
ship venturing over their vast expanse, to be made 


30 


THE MERCHANT AND THE LADY 


afraid by their violence, or flattered by their calm, — 
and all the commerce of the world was scarcely equal 
to that of the smallest and poorest kingdoms of our 
times. Then going to sea was considered more 
perilous than going into battle ; voyagers never failed 
to make their wills, and set their worldly affairs in 
order, before they weighed anchor and set sail for 
foreign parts. To be sure, it has lately seemed very 
much as though we were fast going back to those 
old, doubtful, dangerous times, — those dark ages 
of navigation; and that, after all our wonderful 
improvements and discoveries, we can count very 
little upon safe and prosperous voyages. 

But to return to Gilbert h, Becket. He was 
thought a brave and adventurous man, when he 
left his comfortable English home, and sailed for 
the Holy Land, to trade with the rich Syrians for 
satins, velvet, and gems, which he meant to bring to 
England and sell at a great profit. He probably 
calculated by this speculation to double his fortune, 
and perhaps be able to buy a title, and so become 
one of the nobles of the land, and five in a brave 
castle, where he would receive the king and court, 
and entertain them in princely style. But, alas! 
titles and royal guests were not for him, and all the 


32 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


castle he was ever to lay claim to, was such “a 
castle in the air” as any one of us may build. He 
was taken prisoner by the Turks, robbed of his 
ship, sold as a slave, fettered, and set at work in the 
palace gardens of Mahmoud, a terrible, fierce-eyed, 
black- bearded, big-turbaned Saracen chief. 

It was a very hard fortune, that of poor Gilbert. 
He was obliged to toil from morning till night, 
digging and spading, planting and weeding; and all 
the while, with the disadvantage of not knowing 
much about the gardening business, and of having 
a heavy chain dragging and clanking at liis ankles. 
You may depend that he felt if he could get safe 
back to England he would never more aspire to 
castles and titles, nor trouble himself if the king and 
the court never should eat a good dinner, or shake 
their heels at a ball again. 

But often out of our greatest misfortune come 
our best good and happiness; and hope and joy 
often follow times of fear and sorrow, as beauti- 
ful rainbows are made out of storms that have just 
darkened the sky, and beaten down the flowers. 
One evening, just as the muezzin from the minarets 
was calling all pious Mussulmans to prayers, Gilbert 
k Becket stood leaning against a palm-tree, resting a 



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THE MERCHANT AND THE LADY 


33 


little from his daily toil, and thinking longingly of 
his country and home. Just then, a noble young 
Saracen lady, of marvelous beauty, called Zarina, 
chanced that way, on her evening walk, and was 
very much struck by the appearance of the stranger. 
In truth, as Gilbert stood there, leaning so grace- 
fully against the palm, with his pale face cast down, 
and his soft auburn hair, half veiling his sad eyes, 
— to say nothing of his long golden eyelashes, and 
his curling, silken mustache, — he was a very 
handsome and interesting young man; and, in spite 
of that coarse gardener’s dress, and that slavish 
chain, looked as proud and noble as a prince. 

Zarina thought so, and, though very modest and 
timid, -drew near to speak a few kind words to him. 
He looked up, at the sound of her light step, and, 
for the first time in many months, he smiled, glad- 
dened by the sight of her beautiful, innocent face. 

The ballad does not tell just how these two 
became acquainted; but it is certain that they soon 
grew to be excellent friends, and managed to meet 
often, and have long walks and talks in the shaded 
alleys and bowers of Mahmoud’s gardens. They 
first talked of the birds and flowers; then of the 
stars, and the moonlight; then of love, and then of 


34 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


God. Gilbert told Zarina of the Christian’s blessed 
faith, and related all the beautiful and marvelous 
stories of our Lord Jesus; and Zarina wondered, and 
wept, and believed. 

Gilbert had learned the Saracen language, and 
spoke it very well; but Zarina did not understand 
the English at all. The first word of it that ever she 
spoke was ” which Gilbert taught her to say 
when he asked her if she would be his wife, when- 
ever he could gain his freedom. But month after 
month — a whole year — went by, and Gilbert was 
still a captive. 

One day, when Zarina met her lover in a shady 
garden-walk, she said, in a low, gentle voice, and 
with her tender eyes cast down, “ I am a Christian 
now, dear Gilbert ; — I pray to thy God morning 
and night. Thou knowest I am an orphan. I love 
no one in all the world but thee; then why should I 
stay here? Why shouldst thou linger longer in 
bondage? Let us both fly to England. God will 
guide us safely over the wide, dark waters; for we 
are Christians, and need not fear anything. I will 
meet thee to-night, on the sea-shore, and bring gold 
and jewels enough to purchase a vessel and hire a 
skillful crew. And when, O my Gilbert, we are 


THE MERCHANT AND THE LADY 


35 


afloat on the broad blue sea, sailing toward thy 
home, thou wilt bless me, and love me; wilt thou 
not?” 

The merchant kissed the maiden’s hand, and 
promised to meet her on the strand, at the appointed 
hour. And he did not fail; but long he walked 
the lonely shore, and no light-footed Zarina came 
flitting through the deep night-shadows, and steal- 
ing to his side. North, south, east, and west he 
looked; but all in vain. The night was clear, the 
winds whispered low, the little waves slid up the 
shining shore, and seemed to invite him to sail 
away over them, to the great sea beyond; but the 
stars overhead twinkled so merrily, and winked so 
knowingly, that he almost fancied they had betrayed 
the story of his and Zarina’s love and intended 
flight. At length he heard a quick, light step, and 
sprang forward with a joyful cry. Alas! it was not 
Zarina, but her faithful nurse, Safi^, who came to 
tell him that Zarina’s love had been discovered, 
that her kinsmen had confined her in a strong, 
guarded tower, and that he must escape alone. 
She sent him a casket of gold and gems, with a 
promise that as soon as possible she would make 
her escape and come to him in London. 


36 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


There really was nothing for Gilbert a Becket to 
do but to accept Zarina’s casket of jewels, and follow 
her advice. So, after sending her many loving 
farewell messages by Safie, he went. 

He had a prosperous voyage, and reached London 
in safety, where he gave his friends a joyful sur- 
prise, for they had given him up for dead. 

Year after year went by, and still he saw nothing, 
heard nothing, of his noble Saracen love, Zarina; 
and at last he grew to think of her very sorrowfully 
and tenderly, as of one dead. But Zarina lived, and 
lived for him whom she loved, and who had taught 
her to love God. For years she was kept imprisoned 
in that lonely, guarded tower, near the sea, where 
she could only put her sorrow into mounrful songs, 
and sigh her love out on the winds that blew toward 
England, and gaze up at the bright, kindly stars, and 
pray for Gilbert. But one night, while the guard 
slept, the brave maiden stole out on to the parapet, 
and leaped down many feet, to the ground below. 
She soon sprang up, unharmed, and made her way 
to the strand, when she took passage on a foreign 
vessel for Stamboul. Now, all the English that 
this poor girl remembered were the words Gilbert' 
and London.’’^ These she repeated, in sad, 


THE MERCHANT AND THE LADY 


37 


pleading, inquiring tones, to every one she met; but 
nobody understood what she meant by them. 

From Stamboul she went on her weary, wandering 
way, from port to port, and city to city, till she had 
journeyed through many strange countries, repeat- 
ing, everywhere, those two words of English; but 
all in vain; for, though everybody had heard of 
London, none knew Gilbert. Yet the people were 
very kind, and gave her food and shelter, out of 
pity for her sad face, and in return for the sweet 
songs which she sung. 

At length, after many months of lonely and 
toilsome wandering, she reached England, and 
found herself amidst the busy, hurrying throngs of 
London. She gazed about her bewildered, and 
almost despairing, at finding it so large a place ; — 
it would be so much the harder to find him. Yet 
still, patiently and steadily, up and down the long 
streets, she went, — through market-place and 
square, — past churches and palaces, — singing her 
mournful songs, — speaking softly, and more and 
more sadly, the one beloved word, Gilbert 

One evening, as Gilbert k Becket, the rich mer-" 
chant, sat at the banquet-table in his splendid Lon- 
don house, entertaining a gay company of rich and 


38 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


noble guests, a servant brought him word that a 
beautiful Saracen maiden, pale and sorrowful-look- 
ing, stood in the square without, singing sad songs, 
and repeating his name over and over. In a mo- 
ment Gilbert thought of his beloved Zarina, and, 
springing up from the table, he rushed out of his 
brilliant hall, into the street, where poor Zarina 
stood, with her long, dark hair glistening with the 
chill night-dew, and her sweet face looking very 
white and tearful in the moonlight. 

He knew her at a glance, though she was sadly 
changed from the fair young girl he had left in the 
gardens of Mahmoud, as gay-hearted as the birds, 
and as blooming as the flowers. He called her 
name, he caught her in his arms, and the next 
time that she spoke the dear word “Gilbert!’’ she 
murmured it against his heart, while his lips pressed 
her cheeks, and his eyes dropped happy, loving 
tears upon her brow. He took her into his princely 
house, and it became her home from that hour. She 
was baptized, and took the Christian name of 
Matilda; but Gilbert always called her Zarina; for 
he said he loved that best. 

The faithful lovers were married, and lived 
together for many years, happy, honored, and 


THE MERCHANT AND THE LADY 


39 


beloved. Their eldest son, Thomas h Becket, was 
a powerful and renowned archbishop in the reign of 
Henry the Second. 

And so ends the true story of the 
chant and the Saracen Lady.^’ 


‘‘English Mer- 


PATIENT GRISELDA 


The Marquis of Salusa, a great nobleman of 
Italy, one day set forth on a hunt, with a large party 
of gentlemen, — gallant young knights and courtiers. 
As the marquis was riding by himself, a little in 
advance of his company, along the borders of a 
great forest, he heard a sweet, womanly voice sing- 
ing a gay ballad of love. Curious to see from 
whence came that voice, the marquis rode cautiously 
along till he came upon a simple little cottage, 
hidden, like a bird’s nest, amid the thick green 
foliage. Beside the door sat a beautiful young 
maiden, spinning and pouring out the gladness of 
an innocent heart in song. Her voice was so 
delicious that the linnets and thrushes in the trees 
around were hushed in listening wonder. Only a 
knowing old sparrow, sitting on the low thatch of 
the cottage, eying the singer, with his head on one 
side, filled the pauses of her song with chirps of 
gracious applause; and an enthusiastic young robin, 
balancing himself on a slender spray, burst, every 
now and then, into a low gurgle of delight. It was 


40 


PATIENT GRISELDA 


41 


a voice which seemed to belong to the young girl by 
right, it so expressed her beauty and sweetness. 
It was to her what perfume is to the rose. 

This maiden was clad in a simple russet gown, 
the dress of a peasant. She wore no ornaments, 
and she needed none. Fairer than pearls were her 
lovely arms and neck, and more beautiful than a 
coronet of gold and jewels were the rich masses of 
sunny curls flowing to her waist, and softly shading 
her sweet face, as she sat and sang. 

The marquis thought he had never beheld so 
lovely a creature. Though he knew many fair 
court ladies — proud dames of high degree — his 
heart had never been touched by their haughty 
beauty and studied graces as by the simple loveliness 
of this poor peasant girl, — this wild rose of the 
forest. He sat very still in his saddle, gazing at 
her, — while she, all unconscious of his presence, 
sang on and whirled the swift wheel, thinking of 
anything else in the world but noble marquises, — 
till his company joined him. Then he advanced 
to the cottage door, and, taking off his plumed and 
jeweled hat, said, courteously, “Good day, fair 
mistress of this homely bower, — this abode of 
virtue, love, and sweet content.” 


42 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


The maiden was very much surprised, but not 
overcome. She had seen fine court gentlemen before, 
as they rode through the forest, chasing the deer. 
She rose, and, modestly greeting the marquis, 
welcomed him and his company to her father’s poor 
cottage, where she and her mother set before them 
some simple refreshments. 

In those days short courtships were the fashion, 
especially where the suitor was a noble lord, and his 
love a poor peasant girl. So it was hardly a matter 
of surprise to any present, except the cottagers, 
when the marquis turned from the brown bread and 
milk, which he had been making a brave effort to 
eat, and, taking the little white hand of the golden- 
haired maiden, said, ‘‘What is thy name, fair 
damsel?” 

“Griselda, ” she replied, with a blush. 

“Ah, well, Griselda, thou pleasest me; and I 
mean to make thee my wife.” 

But the maid, blushing yet more deeply, and try- 
ing to withdraw her hand, replied, “Nay, my lord 
marquis, that must not be; for I am a poor, igno- 
rant peasant girl, too far below thy high estate 
to wed with thee. Surely thou dost jest.” 

Then the marquis swore a great oath — which 



Good day, fair mistress of this homely bower 



PATIENT GRISELDA 


43 


I cannot think of repeating here — that he would 
marry her, and no other; and as he was very power- 
ful indeed, and very self-willed and obstinate, — 
as lords are likely to be, — and as the maiden’s 
father and mother were only too proud and happy 
to give their consent, and as Griselda herself had, on 
beholding the handsome young huntsman, been 
seized with an instantaneous and overpowering 
affection for him, she consented, as we knew she 
would all along. 

Then the gay young knights came forward and 
congratulated their lord, and begged leave to kiss 
the fair hand of his lady-love. They bowed low 
before Griselda, and pretended to be quite over- 
whelmed by her beauty and grace ; but they laughed 
behind her back at her rustic air and russet gown — 
the rogues! 

In a day or two there arrived for Griselda, from 
the marquis’s palace, a great many parcels and 
band- boxes, containing splendid dresses and orna- 
ments, accompanied by a smart waiting-woman, 
who put on such airs when she found herself in a 
cottage that Griselda thought her some great lady, 
and addressed her with profound respect, which 
did not tend to lessen her airs. She condescended, 


44 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


however, to dress the bride in the silk, and velvet, and 
jewels her lord had sent to her; to comb out her 
sunny locks, and coniine them with a band of gold, 
set thick with diamonds. 

The marquis came, with a company of noble 
lords and ladies, to conduct the bride to church. 
Griselda came forth from her chamber, looking more 
beautiful than words can tell, and greeted her lord 
with joyful smiles. Yet, as he led her forth, and 
set her on her snow-wliite palfrey, who tossed his 
mane and pawed the earth, as though proud 
of his trappings of crimson and gold, she did not 
glance back upon the humble cottage of her parents 
with haughty scorn, but with tears in her soft blue 
eyes. 

She was married in a great church, with any 
amount of pomp and ceremony, two envious court 
ladies holding her train. And so the lowly bom 
Griselda became Marchioness of Salusa. 

When the marquis took his bride away to court, 
her father and mother returned proud and sad to 
their cottage, which had become a very lonely and 
silent place. Everything seemed to miss Griselda; 
the birds she had fed and sung to; the flowers she 
had tended; even the wild vine that clambered up 


PATIENT GRISELDA 


45 


the wall, and peeped in at the little window of her 
vacant chamber. 

“How grand our Grisel looked, in silk and 
velvet! She seemed made for such royal attire,’^ 
said the peasant mother to her good man, more than 
once, after that great wedding. Yet the first thing 
she had done, on their return from the church, was 
to take up the russet gown which the tiring- woman 
had contemptuously flung by, fold it carefully, and 
lay it away in a chest, with all the other articles of 
her daughter’s simple wardrobe. Then she knelt 
down and looked at them all, — russet gown, scarlet 
petticoat, snowy apron and hose, and little wooden 
shoes, — not with smiles of scorn, but with tears of 
tenderest love. You would have almost thought it 
was Griselda’s coffin she was looking into so mourn- 
fully. 

At court, Griselda’s beauty so far outshone that 
of the dames of high degree that they were all filled 
with envy and ill will. Soon they endeavored to 
make strife and unhappiness between her and her 
lord, — dispraising her for her lowly birth and 
simple, innocent ways, even while praising her 
beauty, and pretending to admire her healthy 
country bloom. They said very bitter, disagreeable 


46 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


things, with the sweetest voices and softest smiles; 
affected to pity the marquis for his infatuation, and 
to beheve that he already repented his unlucky 
choice of a wife. 

The Salusas were a very proud and aristocratic 
family, wonderfully ancient and exclusive. They 
could trace back their splendid line for ever so many 
centuries, — some said, playfully, to the creation ; 
and that they laid claim to a separate Eden, and an 
Adam and Eve of their own. So it was little wonder 
that the marquis’s kinswomen were all especially in- 
dignant and scornful; and being such mighty per- 
sonages, they did not scruple to speak out plain 
and strong. 

‘‘Thou hast wronged us, cousin,” they said. 
“ Thou, a noble marquis, a Salusa, to wed with one 
so basely bom. Thou shouldst have taken a prin- 
cess for thy wife. Put away this mean peasant girl, 
who brings upon thee and thy race only scorn and 
reproach, and take another bride, — a lady of rank 
equal to thine own.” 

All these things were reported to Griselda; but 
she bore them with sweet patience and unfailing 
humility, saying that her dear lord must do as 
seemed to him best — hold to her, or put her away; 


PATIENT GRISELDA 


47 


that she grieved to have offended the noble lords 
and ladies by her lowly birth; but that that was a 
thing she could not undo, else would she gladly 
right it. And yet it seemed to her, she said, that 
her lord’s high estate should make her humbleness 
to be forgotten; as when the lark soars singing in 
mid-heaven, none think of his mate, low-nested in 
the meadow-grass. 

Well, those gay lords and proud ladies grew more 
and more interested in their game of hunting down 
poor Griselda, and worrying her noble husband; till 
at last, the marquis secretly laid a plan for mortify- 
ing them, and proving his wife’s patience and con- 
stant love. 

Griselda was now the mother of two pretty twin 
babies. At the christening of these there was great 
rejoicing among the retainers of the marquis. A 
great company of knights and ladies were enter- 
tained at his palace with feasts and tourneys, and all 
sorts of pleasant games, for full six weeks. 

Griselda mingled as little as possible in these 
sports. She loved better to stay in the nursery, 
beside the cradle of her babies, where she was 
happier than she had ever been since she became a 
great lady. One day, after all the guests were gone. 


48 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


she was sitting by the children, watching them in 
their sleep, and wishing, perhaps, that her own dear 
mother were there to look with her on their pretty 
httle rosy faces and chubby, dimpled hands, when 
a rude servitor entered, and told her that his lord 
had sent him to remove the babies forever out of 
the way; as, on their mother’s side, they were too 
base-bom to inherit the riches and titles of the 
noble house of Salusa. “ So let me have the children, 
without delay,” he said, stretching out his hands 
towards the cradle. 

Poor Griselda burst into tears and sobs, and 
wrung her hands wildly, for a few moments. But 
she soon calmed herself, stayed her sobs, dropped 
her hands upon her knees, and said, meekly, “My 
gracious lord must have his will obeyed.” 

Then she took her little son and daughter from 
their cradle, kissed them many times, with tears and 
blessings and sorrowful farewells, and gave them to 
her lord’s messenger, saying, “Alas! alas! had I been 
of royal race, I might have kept my dear babies; 
now they must die for my unworthiness. Take them, 
messenger of death though thou be, and commend 
me to my lord.” 

The servitor took the children to his master, who 


PATIENT GRISELDA 


49 


secretly sent them to a noble lady, to be brought up 
tenderly, as became their rank. 

After he had done this, he went to seek his wife. 
He found her sitting in the nursery all alone, beside 
the empty cradle, very white and still, with her hands 
tightly clasped on her bosom. She tried to smile 
when her lord drew near, and though she could not 
quite do it, she looked very sweet and patient as 
usual. 

“Well,’’ he said, “thy children are now disposed 
of, safe from the scorn of the great world. What 
dost thou think of this deed ? Answer me, my pretty 
Griselda.” 

She replied, “If thou, my lord, art well pleased 
with it, poor Griselda can say naught against it. 
Both I and mine are at thy command.” 

A few days after this, the marquis came to his 
wife’s chamber, apparently very much disturbed in 
his mind. 

“My fair Griselda,” he said, rather bluntly, 
“matters have come to such a pass here at court, — 
my nobles and their wives so murmur and rail at the 
great honor I have done thee, — that I can have no 
peace till thou art banished. I am sorry, but I 
really cannot hold out any longer. I have made up 


50 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


my mind to send thee home, and let thee return to 
the lowly fortune to which thou wert born. Thou 
must take off thy stately garments, which ill befit 
thee now, and put on again the russet gown thou 
didst wear when I saw thee first. I have had it 
brought hither, with the rest of thy peasant garb. I 
would be willing to grant thee a pension from my 
purse, but for the exceeding bitter outcry ’gainst thee. 
My kinsfolk will not allow me to give thee a groat. 
It is a grievous case, but so it must be.” 

Griselda heard these cruel words quietly, and sub- ' 
mitted without a murmur or complaint. She rose 
up meekly, stripped off her laces and her jewels, 
her robe of velvet and her kirtle of silk, and put on 
her russet gown. When she was dressed in the old 
humble way, though her insolent waiting-woman 
laughed, she was not ashamed, only sorely grieved. 
As she was ready to depart from her splendid 
palace-home she thought only of the beloved though 
cruel husband she must be separated from forever; 
and looking up into his face with tearful eyes she said, 
softly, “God send long life to thee, my dear lord.” 

The marquis’s own eyes looked a little watery at 
these words. He bent down and kissed her, say- 
ing, “Farewell, my dear.” 


PATIENT GRISELDA 


51 


And so the Marquis of Salusa put away his wife; 
and she, all clad in russet gray, went back to the 
little cottage by the great forest, and said, “My 
father and mother, I have come back to you and 
the lowly estate to which I was born. My noble 
lord has wearied of me.” 

Griselda continued to live with her parents some 
years. She was still very beautiful, though not so 
blooming and gay as in her humble, happy girlhood. 
She never sang now, and secretly she wept much for 
her lost children and the husband who had forsaken 
her. But she was gentle and good, and as patient 
as ever. No one could speak evil of her. At court 
she was soon forgotten ; and at last there were rumors 
that the Marquis of Salusa was about to make a 
new marriage, — one worthy of his exalted rank and 
ancient family. The first that Griselda knew of it 
she was summoned by the marquis to his palace, to 
attend the wedding and wait on the fair bride. 

“ Do not go, my Grisel, ” said her mother. “ Thou 
owest that wicked man no duty, now that he has put 
thee away. Go not, I pray thee.” 

“Nay, mother,” she replied, “I owe my dear 
lord duty while I live ; and I will go, if only to look 
on his face once more, and for the last time ere I die.” 


52 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


So she went to the palace with her brother, — 
she looking very meek and patient, as usual; he 
with a fiery glow in his swarthy cheeks, and an 
angry flash in his eyes; for he loved his fair sister, 
and fiercely resented her wrongs. 

The new bride of the marquis was very unlike the 
old; a proud and haughty dame was she, and crafty 
withal. She had wished and schemed to marry the 
marquis before he had wedded Griselda, and after- 
wards had been the poor wife’s bitterest enemy. 

Ah! it was a sore trial of Griselda ’s patience, 
when she was charged with the task of attiring this 
proud dame for the altar. Yet she did as she was 
commanded, — meekly bore the lady’s scoffs and 
gibes, and tried hard to make her look beautiful 
in her costly bridal array. 

When all was done, and the marquis had entered, 
with all his lords and gentlemen, she was about to 
shrink away, feeling that she really could endure no 
more, and that she must get home to her mother, 
or die at once, when the marquis stepped up to her 
and said, “Now, Mistress Griselda, I would know 
if thou agreest to this marriage. I have chosen, at 
last, a right noble and stately bride, of ancient 
family, and exceeding rich withal. What sayest 


PATIENT GRISELDA 


53 


thou? Methinks thy looks are wondrous coy. Art 
well content?’^ 

With this, all around began to laugh at the poor 
woman’s distress. But she looked up in her old, 
patient, loving way; and though her lip quivered, 
and her eyelashes glistened with tears, she said, 
firmly, “ God send my lord marquis many years of 
joy! ” 

At that meek answer, all present, except only the 
proud dame who was to be the bride, were moved 
with pity and admiration. More than one great 
lord, with an immense pedigree, and a brilliant 
string of titles streaming after his name, like the tail 
of a comet, became conscious, for the first time for 
many years, that he had such a thing as a heart, 
by its suddenly softening and warming toward that 
marvelously loving and long-suffering wife. More 
than one haughty lady, amazed at such goodness and 
gentleness, forgot or forgave poor Griselda’s sur- 
passing beauty, and cried, “Gramercy! she is an 
angel, and no mortal woman.” 

But most of all was the marquis moved by her 
humble words, her uncomplaining sweetness; by all 
the mournful tenderness and patient suffering which 
spoke in her tones and looked out of her eyes. He 


54 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


took her by the hand, and said, in a loud, clear 
voice, “ Thou art my bride, — all the bride I want, 
or mean to have.^^ Then, pointing to a noble boy 
and a beautiful young girl, standing somewhat apart 
and gazing wistfully upon her, he added, There 
are thy children!’^ and in another moment, Griselda 
was warmly embraced by her long lost son and 
daughter. 

The marquis then asked pardon of the dis- 
appointed bride, — who, after all, was no bride, — 
and begged her still to retain, as some slight conso- 
lation for the loss of his rank and fortune, the costly 
jewels he had that morning presented to her. She 
refused to grant the pardon, but she kept the jewels. 

Then, again taking the hand of his wife, the 
marquis made a little speech to the lords and ladies 
present, which considerably lowered their lofty 
crests. 

“You who once envied and despised my dear and 
loving wife,’’ he said, “may now blush for shame, 
and learn to honor virtue and goodness. I tell you, 
that long after the proudest of you is forgotten, 
fame shall extol the patient constancy of Griselda, 
whom I again take to my arms, — my most 'noble 
and beloved wife.” 


THE HEIR OF LINNE 


A LONG, long time ago, somewhere in Scotland, 
there lived a young lord, the Lord of Linne. His 
father had been a good old man, and his mother a 
high-born lady; but they were both dead, leaving 
him sole heir to the wide lands and stately house 
belonging to his title. 

He was of a gay, careless, reckless disposition; 
but he had, withal, a frank, warm, generous heart, 
which, at first, I doubt not, prompted him to spend 
his money freely, because it seemed to make others 
happy. But before long he found his way into the 
company of a set of gay, dissolute young men, and 
spent his days with them, in merry carousings, and 
his nights in reveling, and drinking, and gaming; 
scattering his wealth with so free a hand that his 
friends half concluded his father must have left him, 
instead of a limited quantity of gold, the purse of 
Fortunatus, or a “magic rose,” such as the fairy 
gave to Prince Leander, from which, you remember, 
as he shook it, there fell a golden rain. 

But, as I said before, his father and mother were 
55 


56 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


dead, and he had no good friends near to caution 
or advise him; or, if he had, he did not heed them; 
and so he went on, in this mad, reckless way, hunt- 
ing, and coursing, and feasting, — always spend- 
ing, and never sparing,” — until all his gold was 
gone. 

Instead of being frightened, as one would expect 
him to be, at this condition of things, it seems only 
to have made him more mad and reckless than ever; 
for he determined to sell his house and lands. 

A man who had been the steward of the old Lord 
of Linne — a cunning, covetous, miserly knave, 
who, by one means and another, had got rich, and 
become a “gentleman” — is now brought into the 
story. His name was John o’ the Scales, and he 
wanted very much to make himself master of the 
lands and title of Linne. So, when he found the 
Heir had spent all his money, he said to him that 
if he wanted to sell his house and lands, he would 
give him good store of gold for them. The rash 
young Heir, without pause or thought, at once drew 
up the deeds which were to make John o’ the Scales 
lord of all the broad, beautiful lands of Linne, and 
of the grand old house where his ancestors, maybe, 
had lived for centuries; where he himself was bom, — 


THE HEIR OF LINNE 


57 


an only son; where his dear, dead mother had 
watched over him, and cared for him, and kissed 
him so many, many blessed times; where his good, 
kind old father had humored and spoiled his boy- 
hood, and unconsciously led the way to the wasteful, 
wanton life he was now leading. But let us be gen- 
erous enough to believe that in his wild excitement 
he did not remember these things. At all events, if 
he did the remembrance was not strong enough to 
stay his hand from signing the deeds. He sold all 
to John o’ the Scales, — all, save one poor little 
lodge, that stood far off in a lonely glen; and for 
every pound that John gave him the land was well 
worth three. 

The old Lord of Linne seems to have foreseen, 
or, at least, feared, the shiftless course of his 
son; for, as you will see, before he died he con- 
trived a very ingenious plan for saving him from 
utter poverty, and turning him away from his idle, 
wicked life. 

One day, not long before he died, he called him 
to him, and said, “My son, when I am gone thou 
wilt spend thy lands and gold; but swear to me, on 
this cross, that thou wilt never part with the little 
lodge that stands in the lonesome glen; for when all 


58 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


the world doth frown on thee, there thou wilt find 
a friend.” 

One would think that when the remembrance of 
that oath came to the Heir, as it did, — for you 
remember he did not sell the lodge, — it would have 
brought with it such a feeling of shame that his 
father’s prediction of his prodigality had come so 
true, that he would have kept out of his old, bad ways, 
for a little while, at least. But no ; he at once called 
his gay companions about him, and said, “Come, 
my friends, let’s drink, and riot, and make merry 
again I ” 

They said to themselves, “The Fortunatus purse 
is mended, — the rose has recovered its magic;” 
and led him on to wilder dissipation than ever. 

But by and by, the purse was again worn out, — 
the rose lost its magic once more; and all that 
remained to the poor Heir of Linne of his broad 
lands and yellow gold were three pennies, — one of 
brass, one of lead, and one of silver. He then 
began to repent of his wastefulness; but he quickly 
consoled himself with the thought that he had many 
trusty friends, who, as he had given so freely to 
them, would be glad of the opportunity to return 
his kindness. Poor fellow; — he knew but little of 


THE HEIR OF LINNE 


59 


the world. One was not at home; another had just 
paid all his money away; and a third called him a 
thriftless loon, and bade him go about his business. 
So he settled sorrowfully down to the reflection that 
he who had been the owner of a noble house and vast 
estates, — who had spent his gold bounteously as a 
king, — who had given splendid feasts, and revels 
without number, — was now left without house, 
without lands, without money, and without friends; 
— with nothing to do but to beg or steal. But he 
was too proud to do the first, and still too noble to 
do the other. 

Just then, the remembrance of his oath to his 
father came back to him again; and at once off he 
started, over hill and hollow, and moor and fen, till 
he came to the Httle low lodge in the lonely glen. He 
looked at it, up and down, in the hope that there 
might be something in its appearance to cheer and 
comfort him ; but alas ! it was a sorry place to look to 
for comfort ; — the walls were damp, moldy, bare, 
and cheerless, and there was but one little window, 
all darkened up with vines of ivy, brier, and yew. 
No cheering sunhght or playful breeze ever found 
its way there. It was the very picture of desolation 
and loneliness; and the poor Heir of Linne leaned 


6o 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


against the wall, completely overcome by grief, 
shame, and remorse. Presently, when his eyes had 
become a little accustomed to the gloom, he saw a 
rope, with a running noose, dangling above his head, 
and over it, in large letters, were written these words : 

“Ah, graceless wretch! hast spent thine all, 

And brought thyself to penury. 

“All this my boding mind misgave; 

I therefore left this trusty friend. 

Let it now shield thy foul disgrace, 

And all thy shame and sorrows end. ” 

As the poor, outcast Heir read these words, his 
heart was ready to burst with shame and sorrow; 
but he choked down his feelings, and said to himself, 
“This is a trusty friend indeed, and is right welcome 
unto me.’’ 

He shut his teeth hard, put the rope about his 
neck, and sprang up from the floor, when at once 
down he tumbled to the ground, with the rope and 
part of the ceiling on top of him. He lay there a 
little while, half stunned by the fall, hardly knowing 
whether he was alive or dead; but, quickly reviving, 
he crawled out from under the fragments of the 


THE HEIR OF LINNE 


6i 


ceiling, when he spied among them a piece of paper. 
He picked it up, and out fell a little key of gold. 
The paper told him of a secret hole in the wall, in 
which there were hidden three chests. It’ did not 
take him long to find the hole, you may depend, nor 
to teach the little gold key to say “Open sesame 
to the three chests. Two of them were full of 
beaten gold, and one was full of silver; and over 
them was written, “Once more, my son, I set thee 
clear. Forsake thy follies, and amend thy sinful 
life. If thou dost not, this rope will surely be thy 
end, at last.” 

Tears of sincere repentance came into the tender 
blue eyes of the Heir of Linne, as he read these 
words, and thought of the dear, dead father who had 
written them; and, solemnly kneeling down, he 
vowed to henceforth live a nobler, better life. 

Then he fastened up the chests securely, after 
having taken some bags of gold out of one of them, 
and started off, with a swift foot and fight heart, 
to the house of John o’ the Scales. When he got 
there, he found a gay company, with three lords 
among them, sitting and drinking wine with John, 
who sat at the head of the table, for he was now 
Lord of Linne, 


62 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


Putting on a piteous face, the Heir said, “ I pray 
thee, good John o’ the Scales, to lend me forty 
pence.” 

At this speech, John grew very red and angry. 
‘‘Away, thou thriftless loon, away!” said he; “a 
curse be upon my head if ever I lend thee one 
penny! ” 

Then the Heir turned to the wife of John, and 
said, “Madame, bestow some alms on me, I pray 
you, for sweet Saint Charity’s sake.” 

But the wife was even more heartless than the 
husband. She, too, bade him “Away!” half 
threatening to have him hung. 

But one of the company at the table — a good- 
hearted, honest fellow — said, “Turn again, thou 
Heir of Linne. Once thou wast a right good lord, 
and spent thy gold merrily; therefore Fll lend thee 
forty pence, and forty more, if need be.” Then, 
turning around, he said, “And John o’ the Scales, 
I pray thee let him make one of our company; for 
well I know thou didst get his lands at a right good 
bargain.” 

John o’ the Scales sprang up, with his face even 
redder than before, and said, in a loud, coarse tone, 
“Now, may Christ’s curse light upon my head if I 



With that he drew forth three bags of gold and laid them down 
upon the table 




THE HEIR OF LINNE 


63 


did not lose by that bargain! ” Then, turning about 
to the Heir of Linne, he said, with a sneering, cun- 
ning look, “And here, before these good lords, I 
offer thee back thy bargain, at a hundred marks 
less than I did buy it of thee. ” 

At this, the Heir of Linne started quickly forward, 
exclaiming, “By my faith, I take thee at thy word, 
and call these lords to witness. Here’s thy money! ” 

With that he drew forth three bags of gold, and laid 
them down upon the table, before John o’ the Scales, 
who sat there so full of rage and astonishment that 
he could not say a word. The Heir of Linne then 
opened the bags, and counted out the bright gold 
pieces, one by one, making them ring upon the 
table, as he did so, just to aggravate John o’ the 
Scales, who writhed and twisted in his chair, furious 
with rage, to think that he was not only no longer 
the lord and owner of the fine house and wide lands 
of Linne, but that he had parted with them at a 
hundred marks less than the price he had paid the 
Heir for them. 

Like a great many other men who strive to get 
along rapidly in the world, by making good bar- 
gains for themselves, and bad ones for those with 
whom they deal, John o’ the Scales had overreached 


64 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


himself. He knew that he had not paid the Heir of 
Linne one half the worth of his lands, but supposing 
that of course the poor Heir, who had just been 
begging for forty pence, could have no gold, he 
thought that by the cunning trick of offering to sell 
them back to him, at even a less sum than he had 
given, he could make the lords believe he had made 
a bad bargain. But we have seen how sadly mis- 
taken he was. 

After the Heir had counted out before John the 
right amount, he said, “The gold is thine; the land 
is mine; and now I am again the Lord of Linne. 
Then, turning to the young man who had offered 
to lend him the forty pence, he continued, “Come 
here, thou good fellow! For the forty pence thou 
didst lend me, I give thee forty pounds; and I’ll 
make thee keeper of my forest, both of the wild 
deer and the tame.” As the other, feeling that he 
had only done a simple, manly act, which needed 
no reward, was about to protest, the Heir quickly 
added, “If I did not reward thy generous heart, I 
were much to blame. ” 

All this time, Joan, the wife of John o’ the Scales, 
— who, by the way, was a great, fat, funny-looking 
old woman, — was rolling herself about in her chair. 


THE HEIR OF LINNE 


65 


making the queerest faces, and moaning to herself, 
“Now, well-a-day! woe is my life! Yesterday I was 
Lady of Linne, and now I am only the wife of 
John o’ the Scales!” and here she fell to making 
more queer faces, and rolling herself about still 
more absurdly, till the old butler of the house, who 
was delighted to have his yoimg master back again, 
took her by the arm, and pointed to the door, out of 
which John was just shuffing, his face all twisted 
up with the ugliest frown imaginable. She shook 
the butler’s hand off angrily, seized her cane, and 
waddled out after her husband, just as the Heir of 
Linne exclaimed, “Fare thee well, John o’ the 
Scales; and may a curse come upon me if ever I put 
my lands in jeopardy again!” 

And so the ballad ends. 


AULD ROBIN GRAY 


Once there lived on the estate of the Earl of 
Balcarres, in Scotland, a humble peasant family, 
consisting of a poor old couple and their one daugh- 
ter, Jenny, a young woman who was famed, through 
all the country round, for her beauty, and loved for 
her goodness. 

Jenny had a lover, whose name was Jamie, — 
a good, brave, and handsome young man, but poor 
like herself. Indeed, when he asked Jenny to 
promise to be his wife, he had only one crown-piece 
in his pocket. To make this crown a pound, he 
took leave of his betrothed, and went to sea. 

He had not been gone much over a year when 
Jenny’s father broke his arm, and her mother fell 
sick, and Crummie, the cow, that might almost 
have supported them all with her milk, was stolen; 
and a rich old gentleman, by the name of Robin 
Gray, came a-courting Jenny. Poor girl! she had 
a very hard time of it. Her father could not do any 
work; her mother could only sit propped up with 
pillows, in an arm-chair, and watch her daughter. 

66 


AULD ROBIN GRAY 


67 


toiling, hour after hour, for their daily bread. 
Sometimes she would beg that her httle wheel might 
be brought to her, and she would try to spin; but 
she was so weak, and her hand trembled so, that 
she always had to give over very soon; and when 
her daughter put away the wheel she would look 
after her, with tears in her dim old eyes, and then 
put on her spectacles, and take up her Bible, so that 
Jenny should not see her cry. 

But with all that this poor girl could do, by work- 
ing all day, and nearly all night, she could not 
support her parents and herself ; so they were obhged 
to accept help from old Robin Gray, who would 
not see them want for anything. To be sure, he 
did them this kindness principally because he 
wanted Jenny for his wife. 

“I know, Jenny,’’ he would say, “that I am but 
a plain, rough old man, whom you can’t fancy much; 
but if, for the sake of the poor old folks, you will 
marry me, I will be a good son to them, and a kind 
husband to you. ” 

But Jenny always refused; for, you know, she had 
given her heart and her promise to Jamie; and she 
expected him home every day. But, instead of 
him, there came the news that his ship had been 


68 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


wrecked, and that all on board were lost. So, with 
all her other troubles, Jenny had to mourn for her 
drowned lover; and things were a great deal worse 
than before, for now she had no dear hope to keep 
her up. 

Then her father reasoned with her, trying to 
persuade her to marry good old Robin Gray. Her 
mother did not say anything, but she looked into her 
daughter’s eyes with such a pleading, pitiful look, 
that Jenny could not bear it. So, at last, she gave 
her hand to old Robin Gray; but she told him that 
the best love of her heart was away down in the 
dark, deep sea, where her dear, lost Jamie was 
lying. 

Well, these two were married; and old Robin was 
as good as his word. He always treated his pretty 
young wife very kindly, and he made the old people 
very comfortable indeed. 

But Jenny had not been married many weeks, 
when, one day, as she was sitting alone, on the stone 
steps, at the cottage door, she thought she saw her 
Jamie’s ghost! But she soon found that it was the 
young sailor himself, escaped from the wreck; for he 
clasped her in his arms, saying, “I have come homey 
my love, to marry you.” 


AULD ROBIN GRAY 


69 


Then she was obhged to tell him all; — how she 
had believed him drowned; and how she was already 
married, for the sake of her poor father and mother; 
and that he must not call her his Jenny any more, 
but Mrs. Robin Gray, of Balcarres. 

Jamie did not blame her, though he was shocked 
and grieved to tears. They both wept, and then 
parted, supposing it was forever. 

Poor Jenny was now sadder than ever. She grew 
paler and thinner every day. She did not care to 
spin any more, and she never laughed nor sung, 
as she used to do. But she was always kind to 
her father and mother, and tried her best to be a 
loving wife to old Robin Gray, who was very good 
to her. 

As for him, he was so grieved to see her moping 
about in this way, and blamed himself so much 
for her unhappiness, that he finally took to his 
bed, with his death-sickness. He would not take 
any medicine, for he said that he did not care to 
live. 

He called his friends together, and confessed that 
he had done wrong, in taking advantage of the 
illness and poverty of the old folks, to get Jenny to 
be his wife. He even owned that he had stolen 


70 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


Grummie, the cow so that the family should have 
no dependence but him. When Jamie came back, 
and he saw how disappointed he was to have lost 
his bride, and how sorry Jenny was that she had 
married, he felt that he had done them both a great 
wrong, and that the best thing for him to do was to 
die; and so he was dying. 

He asked for Jamie, and when the young sailor 
came he took his hand and put it into Jenny’s, and 
said, “You love each other well. Forgive me; and, 
O! let me do some good before I die. I give you, 
young man, all my houses, and lands, and cattle, 
and the dear wife who never ought to have been 
mine.” 

Then Jamie and Jenny bent down, and kissed 
his hands, and wept over them. Those hands 
grew cold against their lips. They looked up, and 
saw a sweet smile on their friend’s face; but that 
face was still and very white. — Old Robin Gray 
was dead. 

After a while, Jamie and Jenny were married, 
and were very happy, in a new and comfortable 
home. The old folks lived to see a little grandson 
— a “wee bit bairn,” as Jenny called him — tod- 
dling about the house, and hanging around them, as 



*• O ! let me do some good before 1 die ” 





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AULD ROBIN GRAY 


71 


they sat in their cozy arm-chairs, by the fire-side. 
And this is the last we have heard about that family; 
but I doubt not they always spoke tenderly of the old 
man that was gone, and I think it very likely they 
named that “wee bit bairn” Robin. 


CHEVY CHACE 


It was in the reign of Henry the Sixth, of England, 
and of James the First, of Scotland, that the hot- 
headed Percy, Earl of Northumberland, made a 
vow, and swore a great oath, that he would hunt 
for three good days among the Cheviot Hills, in 
spite of his Scottish foe — the brave and mighty 
Earl Douglas — and all his clan. He declared that 
he would kill the fattest harts in all the forest, and 
carry them away to feast upon in his grand castle. 
When the bold Douglas heard this, he laughed, in 
a grim, mocking way, and sent the Percy word to 
look for hinij also, at that merry hunting. 

Lord Percy came out of Bamboro, with a com- 
pany of fifteen hundred archers, and began the 
chase among the beautiful Cheviot Hills, early on 
a Monday morning, in the golden autumn time. 
Fast and far they rode through the forest, foUovdng 
their eager hounds, which pressed close upon the 
flying deer. Now they galloped up hills; now they 
floundered through marshy places; now they leaped 
fallen trees; now they tore through thick brushwood; 

72 


CHEVY CHACE 


73 


now they dashed through quiet streams, breaking 
down flowering shrubs, crushing small wild-wood 
flowers, startling little song-birds from their nests, 
shaking down showers of many-colored leaves, 
chasing down the panting hart, and bathing their 
swift arrows in his gushing blood; so > carrying noise, 
and tumult, and terror, and death wherever they 
went. 

By noon they had killed a hundred fat deer. 
Then they blew a loud bugle-call, and all came 
together to see the quartering of the game. Then 
the proud Lord Percy said, ‘‘The doughty Douglas 
promised to meet us here, to-day; but I knew 
full well the braggart Scot would fail to keep his 
word.” 

Just then, one of his squires called his attention 
to a sight which quickly changed his opinion of the 
Scottish chief. 

Down below, in Teviotdale, along the borders of 
the Tweed, came a host of full two thousand men, 
armed with bows and spears, bills and brands. 
As soon as they came near to the hunters, they cried 
out, “Leave off quartering the deer, and look to 
your bows; for never, since you were born, have you 
had greater need of them than now.” 


74 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


The Douglas rode in front of his men, his white 
plumes dancing in the wind, and his brazen armor 
flashing in the mid-day sun ; and when he spoke his 
voice was like a trumpet, — so clear, and strong, and 
threatening. 

“Ho, there!” he cried; “what men, or whose men 
are you? And who gave you leave to hunt in 
Cheviot, in spite of me?” 

Then Lord Percy, with a black frown, and a 
voice like thunder, answered, “We will not tell thee 
what men, nor whose men we are; but we will 
hunt here, in this chace, in spite of thee and all thy 
clan. We have killed the fattest harts in all these 
forests, and we intend to take them home and make 
merry with them.” 

“By my troth!” answered the Douglas, “for that 
boasting speech, one or the other of us must die this 
day! But, my Lord Percy, it were a great pity to 
kill all these guiltless men, in our quarrel. We are 
both nobles of high degree, and well matched; so let 
our men stand aside, while we two fight it out.” 

The Percy agreed to this; but neither his nor the 
Douglas’ men would consent to stand still while their 
lords were fighting. 

So the English archers bent their bows, and let 



Chasing down the panting hart 






CHEVY CHACE 


75 


fly a perfect shower of arrows, and the Scottish 
spearmen charged upon them. Then the English 
and Scots both drew their swords, and fought face 
to face, and foot to foot. And so began one of the 
most terrible fights that the sun ever looked upon. 
Soon the Douglas and the Percy came together, and 
fought till the blood spurted through their armor, 
and sprinkled all the ground around them in a thick, 
red rain. 

At last, the Douglas cried, ‘‘Yield, Percy, and I 
will take thee to our Scottish king, and thou shalt 
be nobly treated, and have thy ransom free ; for thou 
art the bravest man that I ever conquered in all my 
fighting!” 

“No!” replied the proud earl; “I have told thee 
before, and I tell thee again, I will never yield to 
any man living; so lay on!” 

Just then an arrow, sent by a stout English 
archer, came singing sharply through the air, and 
pierced deep into the breast of the Douglas. He 
gave one cry, — “ Fight on, my merry men, while 
you may; for all my days are over!” and then 
straightened himself out and died. 

Lord Percy took the dead man’s hand, and said, 
“Woe’s me! to have saved thy life I would have 


76 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


parted with my lands; for in all the country there 
was not a braver or better man!” 

As he stood there lamenting, a Scottish knight, 
called Sir Hugh Montgomery, came galloping up 
on a swift steed, and drove his spear through Lord 
Percy, so that he never spoke more. Then an 
archer of Northumberland took aim at Sir Hugh, 
with an arrow tipped with a white swan’s plume, 
and the next moment the knight fell from his saddle; 
and the plume on the arrow that stuck in his breast 
was no longer white, but red. 

And so they went on till evening, and still the battle 
was not done. Then they fought by the moonlight, 
imtil the night winds sighed about them, and the 
skies wept still tears of dew, and the fearful little 
stars glinted down upon them through the moaning 
trees. 

In the morning, it was found that of the fifteen 
hundred archers of England, there were living but 
fifty- three; and of the two thousand spearmen of 
Scotland but fifty-five, and these were so weary and 
wounded that they gave up the fight. 

But there were seen many yet sadder sights on 
Cheviot battle-field, when the widows and orphans, 
the fathers and mothers, and sisters and young 


CHEVY CHACE 


77 


brothers, came to search for their dead. They 
looked eagerly here and there; and when they found 
the beloved forms, still and cold, and ghastly with 
red death-wounds, there was weeping and bitter 
mourning; and many a cry of despairing agony rung 
out on the dewy morning air. 

At length, homeward turned the mourners, bear- 
ing their dead on rude biers, made of birch and hazel 
branches. As they passed slowly through the 
shadowy wood, the wind blowing through the 
old oaks and mournful pines above them made a sad 
and solemn music; and the young trees murmured 
and trembled at their steps, and flung down pitying 
dew-drops upon the dead. The birds ceased their 
singing till the procession passed by; and now and 
then a wild doe looked out through the thick 
branches, and seemed, with her soft, melancholy 
eyes, to sorrow rather than rejoice over the brave 
himters, who would level the lance and direct the 
arrow no more. 

When it was told to the Scottish King James, at 
Edinburgh, that the noble Douglas had been slain 
at Cheviot, he cried, “Alas, woe is me! for there is 
not and never will be such another captain in all 
Scotland.” 


78 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


But when word was carried to King Henry, at 
London, that Lord Percy had been killed at Cheviot, 
he said, “May God have mercy on his soul! I have 
a hundred captains in England as good as ever he 
was; nevertheless, I pledge my life to avenge thy 
death, my gallant Percy!” 

To fulfill this angry vow, he went to battle against 
the Scottish king, and made the lives of six-and- 
thirty of his bravest knights, and many hundred 
gentlemen and soldiers, pay for the life of the 
Percy. 

Soon, the Scots avenged themselves, then the 
English; till it seemed that there would be no end 
to the fighting, and bloodshed, and sorrow that 
came from that hunt in the Cheviot Hills, most often 
called “Chevy Chace.” For century after century, 
the descendants of the men who fought there were 
at deadly strife; and few, I fear, were as noble foes 
as the great Douglas and Lord Percy. At last, 
they forgot that the first cause of the quarrel was a 
dispute about the right to kill a few deer, between 
two chieftains who were reconciled in death, and 
they went on hating, and robbing, and killing one 
another; fighting, all the while, in the darkness of 
ignorance, and superstition, and fierce, wicked 


CHEVY CHACE 


79 


passions. But after a while, God sent a better day 
to England and Scotland, — a day of knowledge and 
true religion; and by its light these men saw that they 
were brothers, — flung down their swords, clasped 
hands, and were at peace forever. 


THE KING AND THE MILLER OF 
MANSFIELD 


Once upon a time, the young King Henry the^ 
Second, of England, was chasing the deer in his 
forest of Sherwood, — a sport of which he was 
exceedingly fond. All day long he rode with his 
princes and nobles; but being mounted on the 
swiftest horse, and being the most gallant and 
determined huntsman, he at length outrode them 
all, and found himself, at twilight, quite alone, and 
lost in the mazes of the wood. In vain he wound 
his horn, shouted, and hallooed. There came to his 
ear no answering sound of bugle, or voice, or gal- 
loping horses, or baying hounds. 

In this strait, the king felt no longer the ardor of 
the chase; but he did feel weariness and hunger, 
and longed for a shelter, supper, and a bed, however 
rude. He wandered up and down for a while, all 
bewildered, and not a little troubled, lest he should 
fall a prey to the outlaws who infested those dense 
forest shades. But at length, quite by accident, he 
struck upon a path which led him out into the open 
8o 


THE KING AND THE MILLER 


8i 


country, and on to a public road. Here he happened 
to meet a man whom, by his whitened dress, he 
knew to be a miller, and whom he courteously ac- 
costed, asking the nearest way to Nottingham, where, 
at that time, he was holding his court. The miller 
looked up at him very suspiciously, and answered, 
“Sir, I intend no saucy jest; but I think what I 
think, and that is, that thou dost not come so far 
out of thy way for nothing.’’ 

“Why, man,” said the king, pleasantly, “what 
dost thou take me for, that thou passest such sudden 
judgment upon me?” 

“Good faith, sir!” replied the miller; “and to 
speak plain, I think thou art some gentleman- thief 
of the forest. So stand back there in the dark. 
Don’t dismount, lest I crack thy knavish crown 
with my cudgel I” 

“Nay, friend, thou dost do me great wrong,” 
answered the king. “I am an honest gentleman. 
I have lost my way, and I want supper and lodging 
for the night.” 

“I do not believe that thou hast one groat in thy 
purse, for all thy gay clothes,” said the miller. 
“Thou dost carry all thy silver on thy outside, like 
a pheasant. ” 


82 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


“Wrong, again. I have money enough to pay 
for all I call for.’^ 

“Well, if thou art truly an honest man, and canst 
pay for it, I will gladly give thee lodging and food.” 

“I have always been accounted such a man,” 
said the king. “Here’s my hand on’t.” 

“Not so fast,” said the miller; “I must know thee 
better, ere we shake hands. Thou mayst be a 
hobgoblin for all I know.” With that, the good 
man led the way to his house, which he entered, 
his guest dismounting and following him. 

When they stood in the full firelight, — “ Now, 
sir, let me see what thou art like,” said the miller. 

“Look thy fill. Do not spare my modesty,” 
replied the merry monarch. 

“Well,” said the miller, after a close and curious 
inspection, “on the whole, I hke thy face; it is an 
honest one. Thou mayst stay with us till the 
morning.” 

The miller’s buxom -wife, who was busy cooking a 
supper, the savory steam of which was filling all the 
cottage, here paused from her work, to put in a 
word: — “Ay, by my troth, husband, he is a comely 
youth; yet it is best to have a care. Art thou 
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THE KING AND THE MILLER 


83 


thy passport, and it please thee; so all shall be 
well.” 

The young king, taking off his hat, and bowing 
low, replied, ‘‘I have no passport, my fair mistress; 
and I was never a servitor. I am but a poor hunts- 
man, belonging to the court, who has been parted 
from his fellows and lost his way. I am too wearied 
to ride to Nottingham to-night, so crave your kind 
hospitality. ” 

The good woman was so well pleased with these 
words that she whispered to her husband, — “It 
seems this youth is of respectable family. Both his 
dress and his manners prove it; and it were a sin to 
turn him out of doors.” 

“Ay, good wife,” said the miller, “he shows he 
has had some breeding, by the respectful way he has 
of speaking to his betters. A decent lad, I doubt 
not.” 

“Well, young man, ” said the dame, turning to her 
guest, “thou art welcome; and, though I say it, thou 
shalt be well lodged, in my house. I will give thee a 
bed of fresh straw, and good brown hempen sheets, 
span clean; and thou shalt sleep like a prince.” 

“Ay, sir,” put in the miller; “and thou shalt have 
no worse a bed-fellow than our son Richard.” 


84 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


The king made a wry face, at the idea of sharing 
his bed with a stranger; but Master Richard — a 
boorish, bushy-headed, but jolly-looking youth, who 
sat in the chimney comer, watching the pot boil — 
called out, bluntly, “Nay, father, I have a word to 
say to that. First, my good fellow, tell me truly, 
art thou right cleanly and wholesome ^ 

The king burst into a hearty laugh, as he answered, 
“Ay, friend; I’ll answer for it, thou’lt have no 
cause to complain of me on that score.” 

Soon after this, they all sat down to supper, which 
consisted of hot bag-puddings, apple-pies, and good, 
foamy ale, which last was passed from one to another 
in a large brown bowl. The miller drank first, to 
his guest’s good health; and the merry king did not 
disdain to take the bowl in turn, and drink to his 
host and hostess, with thanks for their good cheer; 
“And also,” he added, with a courtly bow toward 
Richard, “permit me to drink to your gallant son.” 

“Then do it quickly,” said Dick, “and pass the 
bowl; for I am dry.” 

“Now, wife,” said the miller, “let us have a taste 
of ‘lightfoot.’ ” At this, the good woman brought 
from her pantry a venison pasty, and set it before 
her husband. He helped his guest to a portion, 


THE KING AND THE MILLER 


85 


saying, “ Eat, sir, but make no waste. It’s a dainty 
dish.” 

“Ay, by my faith! I find it the daintiest dish that 
ever I tasted, ” said the king, who was hungry enough 
to relish much worse fare. 

“ By my faith! it is no dainty at all,” said Richard, 
“seeing that we eat it every day.” 

“In what place may the meat you call ‘ lightfoot’ 
be bought?” asked the king. 

“Why, as for that,” answered Dick, “we don’t 
buy it at all. We fetch it on our backs from the 
forest yonder. To say truth, we now and then 
make free with the king’s deer, seeing that he hath 
more of a good thing than he needs, or deserves.” 

“So, then, this is venison?” said the king. 

“Ay, — any fool may know that. We are never 
without two or three, up there under the roof, — 
excellent fat bucks. But mind thou tell no tales 
when thou leavest us. We would not for twopence 
that the king should know of it; he might be villain 
enough to hang us.” 

“ Don’t be uneasy, my friend,” said royal Henry. 
“He shall never know any more of it through me, I 
promise thee.” After this, they took a hearty 
draught of ale all around, and went to bed. 


86 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


The king slept soundly all night, on his rude 
couch of straw, being too tired to be kept awake 
even by the lusty snoring of his bed-fellow, Rich- 
ard. 

In the morning, after a hasty breakfast, — for 
which, as for his supper and lodging, he paid hand- 
somely in gold, — as the king was about mounting 
his horse to depart for Nottingham, a large party of 
his nobles, who had been hunting for him, in all 
directions, for many hours, galloped up to the 
miller’s cottage; and, seeing their sovereign, dis- 
mounted instantly, and knelt before him, craving 
his pardon for having lost sight of him in the chase, 
the day previous. 

When the miller perceived the lofty rank of his 
guest, and remembered how familiarly he had 
treated him, he stood speechless with terror, trem- 
bling from head to foot, expecting nothing less than 
that he should be hanged before his own door. The 
king saw his fright, and was secretly amused, but 
said nothing. Presently, he drew his sword slowly 
from its scabbard. At this, the poor miller dropped 
on his knees, and begged for his life, with big tears 
rolling down his cheeks. Just behind him knelt his 
wife, crying piteously. As for Master Richard, he 


THE KING AND THE MILLER 


87 


had valiantly turned and run for Sherwood Forest, 
as soon as he found who had been his bed-fellow. 

The king lifted his sword. “Don’t cut off my 
head, your majesty! It won’t do anybody else as 
much good as it does me 1 ” cried the miller. 

The king brought down his sword, — not on the 
miller’s neck, but Hghtly on his shoulder, — and 
said, “Rise, Sir John Cockle!” 


When Kdng Henry had returned from Notting- 
ham, to his palace, at Westminster, he was one day 
talking over with his nobles the sports and pastimes 
of the season ; and he then declared that of all the ad- 
ventures he had ever had, his getting lost in the for- 
est of Sherwood, and his entertainment by the Miller 
of Mansfield, had afforded him the most amusement. 

“A thought strikes me!” he exclaimed. “The 
great feast of St. George is approaching. We will 
invite our new knight, his wife, and his son Richard, 
to be our guests on that occasion. How say you, my 
lords; does not the plan promise sport?” 

The proposal was received with merry acclama- 
tions and laughter by the nobles; and an officer 
(called a pursuivant) was dispatched on the business 
at once. 


88 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


When the king’s messenger entered the miller’s 
house, he addressed the simple old countryman with 
the most profound respect, saying, “God save your 
worship, and your worship’s fair lady, and send to 
your worship’s son Richard — that sweet, gentle, 
and gallant young squire — good fortune and happi- 
ness! Our king sends you courteous greeting, and 
begs that you will all three come to court, oil St. 
George’s Day.” 

“I doubt,” said the miller, “this is a jest of his 
majesty. What should we do at court ? Faith, 
I’m afraid of such jests.” 

“As for me,” said Richard, ruefully, “I look to 
be hanged, at the very least. ” 

“Nay, upon my word,” answered the pursuivant, 
“you mistake. The king is to make a great feast, 
in your honor. So do not fail to come.” 

“If that is the case, sir messenger,” said the 
miller, pompously, “thou hast pleased my worship 
right well. So here are three farthings for thy good 
tidings. Let me see; — ah, commend my worship 
to the king, and say that we will wait upon him, 
with right good will, on St. George’s Day, with the 
other nobles of the realm.” 


L OFC. 


THE KING AND THE MILLER 


89 


The pursuivant, refraining with difficulty from 
smiling at such simplicity, took the reward, and 
bowed himself out of the cottage, in the most humble 
and respectful manner. He returned to West- 
minster, in a merry mood, and showed his three 
farthings to the young king, who laughed heartily at 
the knight’s liberal bounty. 

When the messenger was gone, the miller said to 
his wife, — “Here’s a pretty pass! There’ll be no 
end of the expenses we shall be put to for fine clothes, 
horses, and serving-men, saddles and bridles. A 
plague on court feasts! This one will ruin us.” 

“Tush, Sir John!” said the dame (she always 
addressed her husband by his new title; and she 
used it a great deal, to get the hang of it) : — “tush. 
Sir John! Folk cannot consort with kings, and 
spend naught. Sir John. But thou knowest I am 
a thrifty dame, and thou shalt be at no expense for 
me, I promise thee. Sir John. I will turn and trim 
up my old russet gown, and make it as good as new. 
Then, Sir John, we can ride on our good mill- 
horses, — I on a pillion behind thee, and Dick by 
himself, as becomes a gallant young squire. ” 

The miller — who had always, even since he was 
made a great man, done pretty much as his good 


90 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


wife advised — consented to this. And so they set 
forth; — jolly Master Richard, in a new leathern 
jerkin, with a brave cock’s feather in his cap, riding 
proudly in front of his parents, who, on one stout 
mill-horse, jogged leisurely along. 

The king and his nobles, being apprised of the 
approach to the palace of their rustic guests, went 
out to meet them, in great state. 

“Welcome, sir knight!” said the merry rtionarch; 
“welcome to c(3urt, with thy gay lady, and that 
brave squire, thy son. ” 

“Out on thee!” said Dick, sheepishly. “Thou 
dost not know me.” 

“Surely, I do,” replied the king, smiling. “Thou 
didst sleep in the same bed with me, once upon a 
time.” 

“Ay, sir, I mind it well,” said Dick; “and a most 
imcomfortable bed- fellow thou wast, — taking a 
royal share of the straw. Save me from such grand 
bed- fellows, say I!” 

“ Speak civilly to my friend, the king, thou unman- 
nerly knave, or, by my knighthood, thou shalt rue 
it!” cried Sir John, in wrath. 

But the king only laughed good-humoredly, and 
conducted his guests into the great hall of his palace. 


THE KING AND THE MILLER 


91 


Here, giving a hand to the miller and his wife, he 
presented them to the stately court ladies, princesses, 
and duchesses, who were all, in their turn, extremely 
polite. Dame Cockle, who would not be outdone 
in good manners, dropped a funny little curtsey at 
every word, and smiled graciously upon all around 
her. 

At length they all sat down to the feast, — a 
sumptuous banquet of richly-cooked viands and 
costly dainties, served with great ceremony, in 
vessels of silver and gold. When they had eaten 
heartily, the king drank to the health of Sir John 
Cockle, in a cup of malmsey wine, and again thanked 
him for his hospitality. 

“Now I think of the thing,” he added, with a sly 
smile, “I would that we had here some of thy 
HightfooC pasty. Sir John.” 

“Ho, there!” cried Richard; “I make bold to say 
it is knavery, after having eaten of it, to betray us. ” 

“Why, friend, art thou angry?” asked the king. 
“That is unkind; I thought thou wouldst take the 
joke, and pledge thy bed-fellow heartily in wine, or 
good Nottinghamshire ale.” 

“Wait, then, till I have dined, ” said Dick. “ Thou 
dost feed us with so many little fiddling dishes, that 


92 


STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


a man is never filled. One black pudding were 
worth them all.” 

“Ay, Master Richard, that were a rare good 
thing, could a man but have one here,” replied the 
king. 

At this, Dick rose and pulled an enormous one 
out of his wallet, — a portion of the refreshment 
provided for his journey. The king, pretending 
great eagerness, attempted to snatch it; but Dick 
drew it back, saying, “Hold, my good sir! Keep 
to thy court dainties; this is meet for thy master.” 

Even this saucy speech, as the king took it merrily, 
was followed by roars of laughter; and the fun and 
frolic continued to the end of the banquet, and for 
a long time after. For, as soon as they rose from 
the table, king, courtiers, and gay ladies, prepared 
to dance. Henry selected partners for Sir John and 
Master Richard, and himself danced with Dame 
Cockle. Such sport as those rustics made for them, 
— -with their awkward blunders, and their wild, 
rollicking ways, — those great lords and ladies had 
never known before. They laughed till the tears ran 
down their cheeks, and their sides did ache; and the 
good-humored country folk laughed with them, 
taking all the merriment in good part. 


THE KING AND THE MILLER 


93 


After the dance, King Henry thanked his guests 
for joining in and adding to his amusement; and 
then, looking round on the young court ladies, he 
said to Richard, “And now, my gallant young friend, 
of all these noble damsels which one dost thou like 
best? And which will it please thee to wed?’’ 

At these words, all the smiling beauties grew 
suddenly serious, thinking that his majesty was 
carrying the joke a little too far. But Master 
Richard, merely glancing at the fairest of them, 
coolly replied, “Faith, I want none of them. I like 
better my own red- headed sweetheart, Judy Grum- 
ble.” 

At this, there was more laughter, and all those 
pretty young ladies tossed their heads in merry 
disdain. 

Then the king, calling to him the jolly miller, 
appointed him overseer of Sherwood Forest, with a 
pension of three hundred pounds, yearly. “Adieu, 
good friend, ” he said; “let us see thee once a quarter. 
And, Sir John, take heed that thou steal no more of 
my deer.” 

And this is the end of the story of “The King and 
the Miller of Mansfield.” 


SIR PATRICK SPENS 


In the royal palace, in Dunfermline town, King 
Alexander the Third, an ancient Scottish monarch, 
sat at the banquet table, with his queen and courtiers, 
drinking rich, red wine, and eating luscious fruit. 
A proud earl, at his right hand, was humbly waiting 
on him; the young sons of great lords were acting 
as pages and cup-bearers; a famous minstrel stood 
ready with his lute, to sing a splendid ode in praise 
of his high mightiness; and doubtless the old king’s 
heart would have swelled with pride, and danced 
with pleasant jollity, on the occasion, had it not been 
that as he looked about him his eyes fell on no 
noble prince or fair princess, to rule in his place, and 
wear his crown, when he should be called to go “the 
way of all the earth,” kings not excepted. 

Alexander had no living children, and the heir to 
his throne was his grandchild, the young daughter 
of the King of Norway. Somehow, this day he felt, 
more than ever before, a longing to see this little 
princess; and as he had just had a fine new ship 
built, he resolved to send for her at once. So, look- 


94 


SIR PATRICK SPENS 


95 


ing round at his courtiers, he asked, ^‘Can any of 
you tell me where I can get a skillful skipper, to sail 
this new ship of mine?” 

One of the knights who sat at the right of the king 
answered, that, in his opinion. Sir Patrick Spens was 
the best sailor that ever sailed the sea. 

Now, it was the winter time, — a very dangerous 
season for navigation, in those northern seas; but 
the king was not going to sail; and kings are not 
apt to make much account of the lives of even the 
best of their subjects. So Alexander at once called 
for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote a letter with his 
own royal hand, and sealed it with his big royal 
seal, commanding Sir Patrick Spens to make the 
voyage to Norway, and bring home King Eric’s 
daughter, without loss of time. 

This letter was brought to Sir Patrick when he 
was walking on the strand, thinking over his perilous 
voyages, and thanking Heaven that he was to be 
safe on land for two good months, or more. When 
he opened the letter, and glanced at the grand 
signature, he laughed a glad, proud laugh, lifted his 
head high, and stepped haughtily, as a correspondent 
of kings should; but before he had read all, the bitter 
tears almost blinded his eyes, and he exclaimed. 


96 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


“O! who has done this unfriendly deed? Who has 
put it into the rash old king’s head to send me out to 
sea, at this blustering time of year? Be it wind, or 
rain, or hail, or sleet, we must sail the foam; for 
this daughter of the King of Norway must, at all 
hazards, be brought to Dunfermline, to sit on her 
grandpapa’s knee, and learn how to govern us 
unruly Scots.” 

But though Sir Patrick murmured a little, he 
obeyed, like a loyal subject and sensible man; for 
he knew he could not help himself, and he preferred 
the chance of drowning to the certainty of losing his 
head. So, on the next Wednesday, he set sail, with 
a gay company of noble young Scots, whom the 
king sent as an escort for the princess, his grand- 
daughter. 

The weather proved fair, and they landed in Nor- 
way on Monday, and presented themselves at court 
without delay. 

They found the princess a very little girl indeed, 
whom it seemed a pity to take away from her nurse, 
her dolls, and pets, and carry over the wintry sea, 
to a strange country. Kling Eric probably treated 
his guests politely, — invited them to dinner, once or 
twice, — got up a famous hunting party for them. 


SIR PATRICK SPENS 


97 


and kept all the game for his own kitchen, but he 
certainly did not dispatch business according to Sir 
Patrick’s ideas; for he detained him and the Scottish 
nobles for a fortnight, and yet the princess and her 
train were not ready. Then the Norwegian courtiers, 
who seem to have been a mean, inhospitable set of 
men, began to say, in the faces of their guests, “You 
Scots are overstaying your welcome ; — you are 
spending all the gold and silver of our king and 
queen, and eating and drinking them out of palace 
and home.” 

Then Sir Patrick’s blood was up, I can assure you; 
and, like the rough, honest sailor he was, he told 
the insolent Norwegians that they lied, and lied again ! 
— that he and his men had spent their own money, 
and paid their own way; and that, princess or no 
princess, he would not stay another hour in such a 
churlish and shabby court. So he called together 
the Scottish lords, and commanded his men to hoist 
sail, and put out to sea directly. 

One of the old sailors begged his master to delay 
a day or two; because, the night before, he had seen 
the new moon “with the old moon in her arms;” 
and he was sure that a deadly storm was coming up. 
But Sir Patrick was too angry and proud to hear to 


98 STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


reason; — put out to sea he would; and put out to 
sea he did. 

They had not sailed more than three leagues before 
the sky grew black, and the winds grew loud, and the 
great waves began to rage and roar about them, and 
dash over and over the ship. 

In the midst of the tempest. Sir Patrick cried, 
“Where will I get a man to hold the helm, while I go 
aloft to see if I can spy land?” 

And a brave sailor answered, “Here am I, ready 
to take the helm, while you climb the topmast; but 
much I fear, dear master, that you will never more 
sec land. ” 

Sir Patrick had hardly taken a step when a bolt 
was wrenched out of the ship’s side, and the sea 
came pouring in. 

Then Sir Patrick commanded his men to bring a 
web of silken cloth from the cabin, and stuff it into 
the hole in the ship’s side. This they did, but still 
the sea came pouring in. It flooded the rich tap- 
estried cabin; it dashed up over the purple dais, put 
there for the princess and her maids; it flowed, and 
foamed, and gushed, and gurgled everywhere, rising 
higher and higher. 

The dainty young lords were loath, at first, to wet 



And a brave sailor answered, “ Here am I ” 









SIR PATRICK SPENS 


99 


their high- heeled silken shoes; but before their 
trouble was over, their velvet hats and gay plumes 
were quite as badly wet; for they all went down, — 
passengers and crew; and King Alexander’s fine new 
ship was a total loss. 

Many were the beautiful court ladies, at Dunferm- 
line, who sat with their fans in their hands, and their 
gold combs in their hair, waiting for their lovers to 
come back from Norway; but never, never did they 
see Sir Patrick’s ship come sailing to the strand. 
They longed, and waited, and watched in vain; for, 
full forty miles off Aberdeen, where the water was 
fifty fathoms deep. Sir Patrick Spens — a good 
sailor, but a rather too hasty and hot-headed old 
gentleman — lay at the bottom of the sea, 

“With the Scots lords at his feet.” 

As for the princess, the ballad does not say that 
she was on board the ship at all; but history tells us 
hat when Alexander of Scotland was killed, by a 
fall from his horse, this grandchild was declared the 
rightful heir to his throne; and, though then only 
eight years old, was sent for, to be made Queen of 
the Scots. King Edwarddhe First, of England, pro- 


lOO STORIES FROM FAMOUS BALLADS 


posed that she should be married to his eldest son; 
and a most magnificent future seemed opening before 
her. But, alas! on her voyage across the rough, 
northern water, the poor little girl fell ill with sea- 
sickness, and, perhaps, home-sickness; and though 
she landed on one of the Orkney islands, she got no 
better, but grew worse, and died. 

Her death caused great troubles and disputes in 
Scotland, which finally grew into long and terrible 
wars. But I doubt not it was better and happier for 
the child to be so early called away from the perils, 
and cares, and temptations of royalty, than to have 
reached Scotland, ascended her grandpapa’s throne, 
held his heavy scepter in her small white hand, and 
worn his great crown on her bonnie little head. 


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